Versus
by Dynast Grauscherra
Summary: The legendary Lone Wanderer arrives in the Mojave while on a mission for the Brotherhood of Steel. There he meets an enemy whose reputation may be equal to his own.
1. Prologue

**Prologue: Beginnings**

_Man, those things are loud,_ John thought as the claxons blared overhead.

John pulled off his helmet and tossed it to the floor, ignoring the loud clank as it hit the metal floor. Despite the protection of the power suit, he knew that there was just too much radiation in the chamber to make a difference. If he was going out, then he wanted to do it facing the world with his own eyes, and not behind some enhanced visor.

The door behind him hissed shut, sealing him off from the rest of the Jefferson Memorial. He saw Sarah Lyons through the window, looking back at him sadly but with pride.

"Like father, like son," John muttered, recalling that this was where his father had also met his end. This damn purifier better be worth it, for all the trouble it's caused his family.

John Black, also known throughout the Capital Wasteland as the Lone Wanderer, took a deep breath before marching into the center of the chamber. He ignored the heavy cricket ticks coming from his Pip-Boy's Geiger counter, which was sounding its warning loudly. John could already feel himself getting sick as the lethal amounts of radiation in the chamber were slowly turning his cells into paste.

He walked up to the central console, and brought his hand up to the numeric pad. "I am Alpha and Omega," he quoted, "the beginning and the end. I will give unto him that is athirst of the fountain of the water of life freely." John smiled, then punched in the code. Two. One. Six.

"This is for you, mom and dad…"

The blast of radiation erupted from the console, knocking the power-suited figure back a few steps. Pain seared throughout his entire body, and he staggered for a bit as the machinery around him thrummed to life. His heart beat madly in his chest, stubbornly refusing to give up. But John knew that he had just taken a hit from a lethal dose of rads, and these were most likely the last few moments of his life. He dropped to his knees and looked up into the glass, seeing the cloudy, mucky water suddenly turn clear, revealing the face of Thomas Jefferson's statue to his eyes.

"Guess I did it," he gasped, laughing, before dropping to his back with a loud clang. "Good night, Mr. President…"

* * *

The lights faded, and all was black.

A sting of pain shooting through her skull, the blackness receding as sounds entered her eardrums. The tangy taste of blood was on her lips, and the skin on her face felt dry and covered in dirt.

"You got what you were after, so pay up!"

The loud, gruff voice sent more thrills of pain shooting through her brain. Eyes flicked open, vision woozy; she was kneeling, looking down at her bound hands.

"You're crying in the rain, pally," a new voice spoke, this one less gruff but still dangerous.

Eyes were still blurry, though they were getting better. Her entire existence felt sore, like her body had been beaten with logs. For all she knew, this was the case. A soft shake of her head to clear her fuzzy mind, and her vision returned fully. A lock of dark brown hair fell in her face, landing upon her right cheek and causing dry skin to itch.

Memories from before came to her, of being ambushed, of men in black leather chasing her and tackling her to the ground. She fought, punching and screaming at them, until one of the brutes clubbed her in the face with something hard. It really hurt.

Realization of her peril caused her to struggle slightly against the bindings on her wrists, twisting them to and fro in an attempt to free her hands. Unfortunately, her movements caught the attention of one of her captors.

"Guess who's wakin' up over here?"

She glanced up and saw three men in front of her: two wore the familiar black leather gear worn by the tribal gang known as the Great Khans, while the third man was dressed in a strange checkered suit. He seemed to be the leader of the outfit, as his appearance and demeanor was much more slick than the other two.

"Time to cash out," the man said as he tossed a cigarette but to the ground.

"Would you get it over with?" asked one of the Khans impatiently. He seemed extremely eager to go.

The leader lifted up a finger, cutting off the man's protests. "Maybe Khans kill people without looking them in the face, but I ain't a fink. Dig?"

The girl's face turned pale upon hearing this, her eyes going large with fright as she saw the man reach into his jacket. "W-wait! You don't have to do this," she stuttered out. "What do you want? I don't have much money, but you can have whatever I got, mister!"

The man pulled something out from within his check coat, and for a moment the girl thought it was a weapon. With both relief and dread, she saw that it was a small platinum poker chip, the item she had been hired to deliver. "You've made your last delivery, kid." He then brought the chip back into his coat before pulling out a large silver handgun. "Sorry you got twisted up in this scene."

"W-what?" The girl cowered back from the sight of the gun, trying in vain to back away from the three men. "B-but you already have what you want, there's no reason for you to k-kill me!"

The man shook his head sadly, looking for all the world like he'd rather be anywhere else but here. "Sorry. But I can't afford to have any loose ends, and sadly… that's all you are, hon. A loose end."

"I-I won't tell anyone, I swear! Please!" The girl looked up at him, staring into his eyes and hoping that her pleas could reach his heart and earn her his mercy. "I just wanna go home, mister! Please don't do this!"

The man sighed, letting out a long, deep breath. "Can't take the chance, kiddo." He quickly raised the gun, aiming its sights directly at her. The girl shrieked, tears leaking from her large hazel eyes as her slight form trembled in utter terror. "From where you're sitting, this might seem like an 18 karat run of bad luck. Truth is…"

The night sky erupted in both light and sound, as the gunshot burned both her eyes and ears.

"… the game was rigged from the start."


	2. Chapter 1: Westward

**Chapter One: Westward**

"Paladin?"

The loud thrum of the vertibird's engines almost drowned out the soft voice.

"Paladin?" Almost, but not quite.

John grunted, irritated that his rest was being disturbed. His eyes remained closed, armored arms still crossed stiffly over his chest. Even while seated his back and legs ached. It was like he had just hiked across half of the Wasteland, yet he knew for a fact that he had been on his butt for most of the day.

"Excuse me? Sir? Uh… Star Paladin Black?"

John grumbled, finally opening one eye to glare up at the nervous looking initiate. "What is it?"

"Sorry for the interruption, sir. But Sentinel Lyons is on the radio for you." The young man's eyes nervously looked about, seemingly too intimidated by his commander to look him in the eye.

"Fine, I'll take it on console four." John said, annoyance still evident on his voice. _Christ, why can't that woman leave me alone for a few hours?_

The initiate bowed before rushing off to the doors of the holding bay, eager to get back to his fellows.

The Star Paladin stood up from his uncomfortable perch on the small side seat and moved over across the cramped interior of the vertibird towards the corner where the communication panels were located. He attempted to stretch his stiff limbs, but the power suit he was wearing, as well as the low overhead of the vehicle, prevented such luxuries. He planted his heavy, armored form onto the comm console's metal seat and reached for the headset. Before putting it on, John made sure to pull out the tattered pieces of cloth he had been using as ear plugs. As the large, cushioned earphones fit snugly over his ears, the loud thrumming of the vertibird's propellers became somewhat muffled. As much as he enjoyed the troop carrier variant's extra space, John hated the extra noise its larger engines made. It made going to sleep all but impossible, and during these long flights the racket was pure hell.

"Hello? Sarah?" John asked as he spoke into the mic. Technically, he was violating procedure by not addressing her by rank. Thankfully, his position as Star Paladin, not to mention his close friendship with the Sentinel, allowed him some leeway.

"Star Paladin Black," Sarah's voice chimed in from the headset. "You don't sound too good."

"I'd like to see how well you'd fare after thirteen hours in this damn tin can," John grumped into the mic.

"Quit complaining. You should be proud of the fact that you're leading the first Brotherhood mission in one of our long-range fliers." Sarah's voice was annoyingly perky today, which only served to irritate John more. "Two thousand miles. That's the farthest any of the D.C. Brotherhood has gone. Well, except for the first generation guys that is. How's the bird's reactor holding out?"

John looked towards the cockpit, spying the two pilots calmly focused on their instruments. Since they weren't screaming and crying out in panic, he figured things with the vehicle were fine. "Peachy," he spoke into the radio. "She should hold together, both to our destination and back. I gotta hand it to the Scribes, they know their tech."

"It wasn't all us," Sarah said. "The Institute helped design the Mark 2's, remember?"

John frowned, feeling a foul taste in his mouth. "Don't remind me."

The Commonwealth, much to John's chagrin, had been accepted as a member state into the Capital Alliance several years back. Their acceptance was met by much derision from the local populace, with most of the complaints coming from the members of the Railroad. Many did not agree with the Commonwealth's treatment of their sentient androids, since they saw it as outright slavery. The Council disagreed though, seeing the Commonwealth's Institute as a great addition to the fledgling nation despite its faults.

For all intents and purposes, the wisdom of the Council seemed to have been proven right. With the Institute's technical prowess in the fields of medicine, engineering, and robotics, the Alliance was able to increase crop production, find new treatments for disease, and set new methods for rebuilding. By combining forces with the Brotherhood's scribes, the scientific advances and rediscoveries of lost Pre-War tech brought the Capital Alliance to new heights of prosperity. In just six short years, the Capital Wasteland went from an irradiated hellhole full of raiders, slavers and super mutants into a true nation with wealth, law, and peace, well on the path to rebuilding.

Of course, not everyone was happy. Chief Harkness almost quit his position as Rivet City's head of security upon hearing the news. It took all of John's persuasive skills to convince the android to remain in his position, as he could help his kind and fight the Institute more if he stayed on as one of Rivet City's managers.

"Like it or not, John, the Commonwealth is here to stay," Sarah told him over the radio, her voice soft but firm.

The Star Paladin sighed, remaining silent as he frowned at the comm panel. He wondered if Sarah was able to tell that he was frowning, and in all likelihood she probably could. He and the Sentinel had been through much together, from surviving the retaking of Project Purity from the Enclave to destroying the vile nest of filth that was Paradise Falls. The last few years had seen a great change to the Capital Wasteland, and for the better. As the Brotherhood and Rivet City's alliance grew into the beginnings of a true nation, the foundation was laid for a true, honest-to-God healing of the land. Even the dreaded super mutant threat had all but vanished, with only a few remaining pockets alive in the deeper parts of D.C. They were now merely a nuisance, and not the overwhelming threat that they were six years ago.

Before the silence on the line stretched out for any longer, John spoke up, voicing the thoughts that he was truly concerned about. "What about _them_? Are they going to be 'here to stay' as well?"

This time, it was Sarah who sighed. "Yes. Yes they are. John, look, I know you don't like it. Hell, I don't like it, either. But the Pitt is the largest manufacturing force in the entire East Coast. Hell, maybe even the continent. You know that a war with the Line is inevitable. The Alliance needs the Pitt's industrial might if we're to win."

_So,_ John thought. _They've been accepted._

The Pitt. From what he remembered, that place lived up to its name. The ruins of Pittsburg was a vile place: toxic and irradiated, filled with monsters, both literal and figurative. Ruled by a former Paladin of the Brotherhood of Steel, it was a den of inequity and injustice. Slavery formed the foundation of its existence. John once had a chance to destroy that lurid society himself, but was unable to do so. The price (the life of an innocent baby) was something he was unable to pay.

It was quite a shock to everyone when some months back, a delegation of slavers from the Pitt asked to meet with the Alliance's Council. The delegates were made up of Ashur's less offensive followers, and they had come to ask for permission to join the Alliance. It seemed that the Pitt was facing threat from Ronto, and despite Ashur's daily speeches about the Pitt's superiority, the slavers and raiders of that city were no match for their northern neighbor's more disciplined and numerous fighters.

"We need the Pitt's factories, and the Pitt needs the Alliance's food, water and protection." Sarah continued her speech, though John had heard most of it before. "The Line threatens everyone, John."

"And our safety will come at the cost of the Pitt's slaves. Their blood, sweat and lives will be sacrificed, and they'll have no choice but to give it." John's voice hissed into the mic, thus his words probably sounded garbled on the other end. "You weren't there, Sarah. You didn't see what Ashur and his thugs did to those people. You didn't see the hoplessness in their eyes." _Or the betrayal when I refused to help them,_ he thought to himself.

"John. I'm sorry, I really am. I hate everything that the Pitt stands for as it goes against everything we in the Lyons' Chapter work to achieve. But the Line must be stopped, or else none of us will have a future."

The Star Paladin remained silent, unable to argue with Sarah's logic. The Line was a threat, perhaps the biggest threat to the Capital Wasteland since the Enclave. It would take everything they had to take on those insane pirates. But to ally with the Pitt? Allowing slavers to join the organization he had helped build up from nothing just left a bad taste in his mouth.

"So," Sarah spoke up, seeing that John wasn't saying much on his end, "how much longer until you reach the Mojave?"

John checked his Pip-Boy. "Four more hours by my count."

"Good," Sarah said, sounding pensive. "Listen, this is the first time in over a decade that we've heard anything from the West Coast Order. Father thought that all the chapters loyal to Lost Hills had shunned us. It was quite a surprise to get a message from the Mojave chapter, especially one asking for assistance."

It was indeed quite a surprise. John didn't really fully understand the significance, but many of the original Brotherhood members went into a frenzy when they received that strange message from out west. From what he could understand, the Capital Wasteland Brotherhood was just an off-shoot of the original order, which was based somewhere in California. It seemed that those on the East Coast weren't too popular with the older folks, since Elder Lyons basically ignored the Brotherhood's mandate of acquiring technology and instead following his conscience and protecting the innocents of D.C. So perhaps it made sense that after all this time, for the original order to come calling and asking for help would be a big deal. Especially to those who might still have friends and family out west.

And so, Star Paladin John Black, the hero of the Capital Wasteland, and widely known by Three Dog's nickname of "The Lone Wanderer," found himself leading a small team of Knights on a fact finding mission out west to Nevada. Since their messages to the Mojave chapter were going unanswered, Elder Lyons dispatched him to ascertain what was going on and if the message was genuine.

"Don't worry, I'm on it. I'll see what these guys want, and hopefully we'll be able to give it to them." John leaned back in his chair as another thought occurred to him. "Hey, Sarah. I was just wondering. Wouldn't it have been better if you or one of the original guys came to lead this mission? From what you told me, these West Coast folks aren't too fond of outsiders."

There was soft laughter on the other end of the line. "That's exactly why we sent you. You are our most effective soldier. Next to me, of course."

"Of course," John stated automatically.

"We want to show those old fools back in Lost Hills that outsiders can be just as loyal and able as any from the original bloodlines. Maybe after you help them out, they'll see what we in the East have known all along and they'll change their arcane policies."

"Well, it's really nice to know you have such a high opinion of me," he said, smirking into the mic.

Another bout of soft laughter reached him from the earphones. "Don't get a swelled head, Star Paladin Black. It doesn't fit your 'Lone Wanderer' mystique."

"Perish the thought. I wouldn't wanna ruin my reputation. Three Dog would kill me."

"Damn straight. Now why don't you go get some sleep? You sound like you need it, and I need to get back to work."

John groaned. "Like I can sleep in this noisy rust bucket." He then chuckled into the mic and leaned in close. Whispering, he said, "Hey, Sarah… Have I ever told you what a soothing voice you have? Why don't you sing me a lullaby so I can get some rest?"

There was a bark of laughter from the other end, followed by the Sentinel's chiding tone. "You ass. Why'd you have to make me laugh like that? Now all the communication officers are looking at me funny." There was the sound of shuffling, followed by a click of some instruments. "Look, I really got to go. I'll sing to you when you get back."

"Promises, promises."

"GOODBYE, John," Sarah interrupted, the smile obvious in her voice. "Sentinel Lyons, over and out."

John smiled as he leaned back in his chair. As always, talking with Sarah Lyons managed to ease his irritated demeanor. His good spirits diminished slightly though when he checked his Pip-Boy and he saw how much time he had left in the flight.

"Damn," he muttered. "I think I would've liked it better if we'd walked there…"

* * *

**APPENDIX **

**Vertibird Mark 2**: The Alliance's designation for the second generation vertibird vehicle, which was designed through cooperation between the Brotherhood of Steel Scribes and Institute scientists. The Mk 2 comes in two variants: gunship and long-distance transport. The gunship variant boasts superior armor and firepower from the Mk 1, which was the basic VB-02 used by the Enclave. The transport variant, though lighter in weaponry and armor, is much larger than the standard vertibirds and is able to travel much longer distances. It can also carry a larger payload of supplies and troops, allowing the Alliance battlefield superiority due to their dominance of the sky.

**Capital Alliance**: A federation of communities from within and around the Capital Wasteland. As of 2283, it is made up of Rivet City, the Citadel, Vault 101, Megaton, Underworld, Big Town, and the Commonwealth. The Pitt has been granted membership and will officially join within a few months. The Alliance started as an economic alliance between Rivet City and the Brotherhood of Steel, but quickly grew into a major governing body in the Wasteland. The member states all contribute to the Alliance through trade, supply of arms and soldiers. Although the Brotherhood is the non-official defacto army of the Alliance, the other member states still have their own militia regiments. Its capital is Rivet City.

**The Line**: A sea-faring raider group that operates from parts unknown in the Atlantic Ocean. They attack from the sea using Pre-War naval equipment such as amphibious landing craft, naval power armor, carrier launched jet airplanes, and even battleships and aircraft carriers. Although their origins are a mystery, the Brotherhood theorizes that they are descendants of survivors from the US Second Fleet who escaped the destruction of the bombs by staying out at sea. The Line was unknown to the Alliance until two years ago, when their ships first started appearing in Chesapeake Bay. They began attacking small settlements along the bay, stealing not only food, water, and weapons but men and women as well. Although they have yet to attack the Capital Wasteland region, their use of Pre-War tech and weaponry have made them a serious threat in the eyes of the Brotherhood. Many believe it is only a matter of time before they turn their sights to the growing wealth of the Alliance.


	3. Chapter 2: Something from the East

**Chapter Two: Something from the East**

Deep within the cold metal corridors of the abandoned Vault 19, a battle was taking place.

Explosions rocked the compound, causing dust and various debris to fall from the ceiling. Samuel Cooke, currently hiding under his desk and clutching at a machine gun, cursed out loud.

"Damn it! How the hell did those fucking things get in here?" he shouted to one of his followers, who lay crouched next to his desk. More explosions sounded, though this time it was much louder.

"Don't know. We think they might'a come in from the lower levels!" The man fell on his butt when another series of explosions rocked the Vault, making the walls and floor itself shake.

"No way, man! We got those tunnels watched! No freaking way they can get in through there without us knowing about it!"

The Powder Ganger shrugged. "Well, they got in somehow. Besides the front door, the caves are the only other way in here."

"Fuck! Fuck! FUCK!" Sam grabbed a green hand-held radio from his belt and fiddled with the frequency. On the device's side were the letters "NCR" etched in white paint. He and his Powder Gangers had scavenged a crate of them from one of the NCR posts that had been abandoned when Mr. House's forces took over. Just as he managed to dial into the correct frequency, an eerie silence descended upon the Vault.

"Hey," his follower said, "the explosions stopped." He and a few other Powder Gangers had locked themselves in Sam's office in order to find safety from the unknown threat that assailed them. They held their breaths, looking about at each other nervously.

"Packer," Sam spoke into the radio, trying to call the Powder Ganger whom had been leading the defenses outside. "Packer, can you hear me? What the hell is going on out there? Packer? Do you copy?"

A loud blare of static sounded harshly in his ear, causing the ex-con to flinch. Within a few moments, the noise diminished and a voice came on the line. "Hello, Mr. Cooke. How have you been?" The voice was feminine, with a light teasing tone. Even through the tinny reception of the hand-held radio, Sam was able to recognize the voice's owner instantly.

"You bitch!" He snarled into the mouthpiece. "I shoulda known you'd be responsible for this!"

"Mr. Cooke, please!" The voice tickled his ear, her disingenuous tone only serving to infuriate him more. "Shall I remind you that you are speaking to a lady? Please watch your language."

"Fuck you, whore!" He shouted. His men looked at their leader with worried expressions, wondering what the hell he was screaming about. "You're nothing but House's little slut! How dare you come into _my_ Vault starting this shit! You think you and those toy robots of yours can get away with this?"

Soft laughter filtered into Sam's ear, followed quickly by the woman's voice. This time the tone was far from light, and much, much colder than he had ever heard it. "Yes, Cooke. I can. You wanna know why? Because I've just killed all your pathetic little convicts outside of that shithole room of yours, that's why. Each and every one of those pitiful little cockroaches are dead, blown to a billion pieces by my 'toy robots.' And guess what? As soon as I open those doors, we're going to kill you and your friends as well. I won't even let them use their rockets and high explosives; I'll have them cut you to pieces with small arms and laser fire, just so it'll hurt more. No quick death for you, Cooke. Not like your buddies out here. Gut shots for all of you fuckers."

"You-" Sam tried interrupting, but the voice continued over him.

"And please! _Your_ Vault? YOUR? How fucking presumptuous can a retard like you be? This isn't _your_ Vault, you stupid California cocksucker! This Vault, like everything else in the Mojave, belongs to Mr. House! You, just like the rest of the other Wasteland trash populating this desert, are nothing but squatters. Well, Sammy boy, here's a news flash: I'm kicking you fuckers out. This is your eviction notice, baby. Signed, sealed, delivered."

"Bitch!" The leader of the Powder Gangers of Vault 19 was beyond livid now, as he clutched at the hand-held and began screaming into the mouthpiece. "You can't fucking do this! We had a fucking deal!"

"Uh, no. You just hired me to clear some pests from the basement of this shithole. And I did that. That was the extent of our agreement. That's all it was for me: just a job." The voice let out a loud laugh. "Wanna know the really funny part? I probably would've left all of you alone, too, if you didn't overplay your hand. I mean really. Bombing the monorail? Killing all those tourists? What were you thinking?"

"They were NCR dogs that needed to be crushed!" Samuel said. Beads of sweat dripped from his forehead, the moisture dotting his dark face as his anger began to dissipate. He had finally realized that these moments might truly be his last if he wasn't smart about it. Perhaps he might be able to talk his way through this if he were careful. "All symbols of the NCR, whether they be military or civilian, are proper targets during war! And this is war! War against the tyranny of Shady Sands and its oppressive-"

"Shut up," the voice cut him off, sounding utterly irritated. "I don't care about your bullshit, Cooke. Neither does Mr. House. If you'd just carried out your stupid little terrorist hijinks out in the wastes like you usually do, then we wouldn't have a problem. But you just had to fight your little holy war on the Strip, didn't you, you stupid fuck? What, did you think Mr. House wasn't going to do anything about that little stunt?"

"Th-the only ones killed were NCR," Sam babbled. "T-there weren't any local folk from Vegas killed!"

"That's not the point, stupid." A sigh filtered through the line, the annoyance very evident despite the static. "Those tourists were guests of Mr. House. The Strip relies on those tourist caps to keep itself the bright, shining beacon that it is. People flock to New Vegas because they think it's a safe, secure, and a luxurious place to be. Your train bombing ruined that image, and in business, image is everything.

"Personally, between you and me, I couldn't give a damn about those dumbfuck tourists that you killed." The woman became silent for a moment, and when she spoke again, her tone was ice cold. "But you made my employer look bad. And that… I can't forgive."

Sam gulped as he heard the other line switch off, and soon all he heard on the other end was the blare of static. "Shit," he muttered. The ex-convict quickly turned to his men, shouting out, "Get ready! They're gonna be coming through those doors any-"

Before he could finish, the locked doors to his office suddenly shifted open, and several Mk. 2 Securitrons rolled in. Each began firing their gattling lasers and machine guns, filling the small room with light, screams, and death.

* * *

"Damn, what a mess," The Courier remarked as she looked over the remains of what used to be the Vault 19 Red Overseer's office. The metal walls were covered in bullet holes and burn marks, and all the furniture had been reduced to rubble. As for the once living occupants… well, they weren't in much better shape.

She moved from body to body, gingerly poking and prodding the bloody corpses with the toe of her boot so that she could identify which of them was Samuel Cooke. After sifting through most of them, she finally managed to find the ex-con's mangled remains under the shattered debris that was once the Overseer's desk.

"Fuck," she cursed, frowning at the bullet-ridden/laser-scarred body. "I wanted him to die slow." She turned her head and directed a glare at a nearby Securitron. "You guys are way too good at your jobs."

"Thank you, Ma'am," the robot said in its gruff, macho electronic voice and completely missing the sarcasm in her statement.

The Courier rolled her eyes at the inept machine before turning her attention back to Cooke. After looking over his corpse for a few minutes, she figured that it was good enough. His head was still relatively intact, and would be proof enough to show the local populace what the consequences were for those who stood against New Vegas.

"Hey," she told one of the robots nearby. "Pick up Cooke's body and take it back to Vegas. Have our PR guys post up pictures, and make sure Radio New Vegas gets the word out that this idiot's dead. As for the rest, leave 'em. Have someone rig up some charges to blow the sulfur caves downstairs. I think I saw some microcline rocks down there that they can use. I wanna make sure this place is dust, so no other asshole with delusions of grandeur can use it."

"Yes, Ma'am!" The Securitrons quickly went to work, one grabbing the pieces left of Cooke while the others scurried about to set the charges.

The Courier was just about to turn and leave when one of the Securitrons rolled up to her. "Ma'am," it said after saluting. "Mr. House is on the line for you."

"Oh, I see. Just a second." The Courier quickly began primping, fixing her hair and straightening her tie, trying to make herself look spotless. "How do I look?" She asked, pushing her glasses further up her nose nervously.

"Smoking hot, like a gattling laser after gunning down some fleeing civilians," the robot replied.

"Uh, yeah. I'll take that as a compliment." The Courier straightened her posture before nodding at the machine. "Okay, put him through."

The display usually shown on the Securitron's monitor, that of a gruff helmeted Pre-War soldier chewing on a cigar, flickered out and was quickly replaced by the dark, brooding features of Mr. House. The cold, green illumination of the monochrome monitor only seemed to highten House's air of authority, as his dark hair, fierce gaze and immaculate mustache from the photo truly captured the air of a man with the brilliance and vision needed to guide the human race to its full potential.

"Ah, Six. It's good to see that you are well," said Mr. House's cultured voice through the Securitron's speakers. "How goes the situation with Samuel Cooke?"

"It's been taken care of, sir," said the Courier. "That idiot will not be interfering with your plans again."

"Excellent. You have done well, Six. I knew you would not let me down. Thank you."

"You're very welcome, sir." The Courier beamed, thoroughly pleased at her employer's praise. "I've also taken steps to make sure that such a thing never happens again. You can rest assured that people will think twice before even considering to stand against New Vegas."

"Very good, I am pleased." Mr. House quickly switched tracks, and changed subjects. The Courier was hardly fazed, though, as her employer often did this such things. "Now, on to a more serious matter. An aircraft of unknown make and model was seen by one of my Securitrons flying over the Colorado River some three hours ago. Whatever or whoever they are, they came from the East."

The Courier frowned. "Caesar's Legion?"

House snorted. "Possible, but not likely. The Legion were not the most technically minded of fellows, and I sincerely doubt that they had advanced so much in two years that they are now building flying machines. No, from the photographs that the Securitron had taken, this craft's design is unknown to me. It is not of Pre-War make, nor is it a design known to be used by the Enclave. Whatever it is, it looks advanced, which means it could be dangerous to me."

"Just say the word, boss, and I'll find it and blow it into a million pieces," the Courier grinned, cracking her gloved knuckles.

"Let's not be hasty, Six," Mr. House said, sounding somewhat amused at his employee's blood lust. "Like I said, whoever built this machine is very advanced. Although they might prove a hindrance to us, they may also make a valuable ally. Or, even something better for our needs: a useful tool to be used."

The Courier smiled; she loved it when her boss got all Machiavellian. It gave her tingles. "Where should I look first, sir?"

"The Securitron saw it flying towards the Black Mountain area before losing sight of it. Take a few of your followers and ask around. Maybe one of the locals saw where it went. It shouldn't be too hard. After all, the only ones with flight-capable machinery that we know of are the NCR and the Boomers at Nellis. I doubt anyone from the wastes would forget such a sight if they saw it."

"Consider this mystery flyer found, boss," said the Courier. "I won't let you down."

"I know you won't, Six," Mr. House responded, his voice warm with pride. "You are my most valuable asset. Be careful." With that said, the still image of Robert Edwin House vanished from the Securitron's monitor, and was replaced by the gruff soldier cartoon signifying that the robot's A.I. was back in control.

The Courier remained standing where she was, flush with joy after hearing the mogul's tender words. Although House's general demeanor had grown much warmer to her after the events of Hover Damn two years ago, she never grew tired of earning his approval. To know that such an important and brilliant man would look upon her with appreciation… it made her feel special. Wanted. Maybe even loved.

She had long ago pledged her loyalty to Robert House, and swore that she would do all she could to make his vision for Vegas and humanity a reality. She would be his right hand, the one to act where he could not, the wolf to hunt his enemies, the blade to cut through his foes. She would do anything and everything it took to achieve her employer's goals, and would happily die for him if she had to.

To the Courier, Robert Edwin House was humanity's last, best chance at achieving greatness. And that greatness would happen, even if she had to kill every last man, woman and child to accomplish it.

* * *

**APPENDIX**

**Free Economic Zone of New Vegas**: The area in and around the city of New Vegas, its outlying settlements, and any roads and railways entering within its territories. The FEZ is under the administration and protection of the enigmatic Mr. House, who uses his massive army of heavily armed Securitron robots to keep New Vegas safe, independent, and wealthy. The FEZ offers limited taxes (well, compared to the NCR anyway) and thus many companies have chosen to open up branches within the new territory. Trade is booming as a result, and many immigrants from the NCR and refugees from the Legion have come because of the safety and security. Although Mr. House is mostly a hands-off ruler, allowing the populace free reign when it comes to personal and private matters (religion, use of chems, prostitution, gambling, etc), but any interference in business or general order is met with swift and brutal action.

Mr. House is the Chief Executive Officer in charge of the Free Economic Zone, and thus ruler of New Vegas. Although no one has ever seen him in person, his edicts are delivered by the woman known only as the Courier. Her full title is Executive Vice President of Administration and she is usually seen doing all of House's dirty work.

The local governance of the FEZ is left to various representatives of each community, all of whom have a seat in an assembly called the New Vegas Board of Directors. The Directors pretty much have free reign over how they run their section of the city, and as long as they don't impede business or attempt revolution, they can do as they like. The Directors may even vote on various items that affect the FEZ on a large scale, and if he's in a good mood, Mr. House may even listen to their suggestions.

The Board of Directors are as follows: The Strip: The Three Families (The Omertas, Chairmen, and White Glove Society, each of whom have one seat on the Board); Good Springs: Mayor Trudy; Freeside: The King; Bitter Springs: Jacob Markland; Sloan: Chomps Lewis; Primm: Johnson Nash; Westside: Klamath Bob; Novac: No-bark Noonan.


	4. Chapter 3: Nobody Home

**Chapter Three: Nobody Home**

"The Mojave Wasteland sure is something," remarked Knight Sergeant Morras. He had taken his Advanced Power Armor's helmet off, thus exposing his balding head towards the high desert sun. "I forgot how hot it gets out West. Definitely much hotter than the Capital Wasteland, that's for sure, even during summer." The man had been fairly young when he and his family moved east with Lyon's group. He just didn't remember how harsh the desert climate could be. "It's a dry heat, too. Not a speck o' humidity in the air. Damn, I can hardly breathe!" He exclaimed, before quickly sticking the helmet back on. The sounds of gasping could be heard as the Paladin took long, grateful sucks of the cooled and filtered air.

John laughed softly, enjoying the older man's discomfort. Knight Sergeant Charleton Morras was one of the toughest men he knew, and to see him folding under just because of a little hot air was quite humorous. Of course, John, too, had taken his helmet off earlier when the vertibird first landed. He had never seen a desert before and wanted to know what it was like. As soon as the seals on his Hellfire armor popped open, the blast of desert heat overwhelmed him as almost as quickly as it did Morras; it felt like sticking your head in preheated oven. How people could live in such a climate was beyond his understanding.

"Just be glad you've got your APA-Mk II on," John told the Knight Sergeant. "Look at Lang. She must be sweating her ass off in those Scribe robes."

"I suppose you do have a point, sir," Morras grumbled.

Some hours earlier, the Brotherhood vertibird had landed atop a large patch of sand in the middle of a large mountain range. At the tallest precipice John saw a series of tall radio towers and a satellite dish, obviously denoting some type of Pre-War facility. The vertibird did a quick fly-by of the structure before landing in the valley, but the pilots were unable to spot any signs of life from the buildings.

The basin they found themselves in was surrounded by rows of Pre-War fencing which was half-fallen apart. Before they left the Citadel, the group was given intel which included maps of the local area recovered from various Pre-War records. Supposedly, John's team had landed in a place called Hidden Valley, which was denoted as some sort of old United States military facility.

The vertibird itself had touched down at the center of the valley atop a flat patch of sand. The Knights quickly disembarked, forming a tight perimeter around the vessel and making sure to watch the alien landscape for any sign of danger. Aside from a few easily dealt-with radscorpions, the area seemed deserted. The armored troopers then split up into three groups and began combing the sand dunes for any signs of the Mojave Brotherhood of Steel.

After an hour of fruitless searching, there was still no sign.

"Are you sure this is where the message said to be?" asked Morras. He looked over the sandy, rock-strewn landscape and watched the teams of armored Knights plodding around looking for their targets.

"Yes. It's exactly the place." John knew this as he was given a copy of the original message when first briefed on the mission. The message itself was short, concise, and very mysterious:

_Brothers._

_The Mohave Chapter urgently requests help._

_Please hurry. We will not last long._

The cryptic words were then followed by a series of map coordinates that had led them all here, to this isolated, desolate place.

John sighed and stepped away from the shade provided by the bulk of the transport vertibird, his eyes scanning the sands and rocks as well as the scenery in the horizon. Because they were in the middle of two tall mountains, he really couldn't see much in the way of the landscape. But there was a gap in the rocks at the south east, which opened up to the wide barren desert. From this gap he could observe the vast, open tracts of the Mojave. It was a bit unnerving, seeing all that naked land. In the Capital Wastes, buildings, hills and desiccated trees were pretty much everywhere you turned. You couldn't go five feet without bumping your face into some reminder of the War and the city that had once been there. Here in the Mojave, it was all so… flat. It reminded him of the time when he was sent on a quest east of D.C. The mission itself had been a hunt for some renegade militant Outcast members, a long journey which took him and his team all the way to the coast. That was when he saw the ocean for the first time. Seeing that endless expanse of water was awe-inspiring. It showed him just how small both he and the Capital Wasteland truly were, a truth that gave him much pause. It made him wonder if anything he did in his small corner of the world actually mattered at all.

The Paladin got the same feeling here, seeing all that endless land. He felt so insignificant; his problems were absolutely miniscule when compared to the rest of creation. Would it have made a difference to the universe at large if the War _had_ actually wiped out humanity, instead of leaving weakened survivors clinging to a squalid existence?

John's ruminations were cut short when one of the Knights began waving from his position atop some dunes in the distance. "_Star Paladin Black_!" the man's voice spoke through the radio in his helmet, the tinny tone high with excitement. _"We found something! An entrance of some sort. We think there might be a bunker underneath us!"_

* * *

Things moved quickly after that. Supervised by Knight Sergeant Morras, the Knights acted swiftly. They set up a makeshift camp outside the bunker entrance, setting up tents and equipment, as well as a defensive perimeter lest this was some kind of trap. Nearby, Scribe Lang and her Initiate occupied themselves by studying what looked to be a large ventilation fan sticking out from the ground.

"I'm worried," she told John softly when he came by to speak with her. "This fan, which might or might not be providing ventilation to the facility below us, isn't active. And there's this black residue around the blades." Lang reached into the grille and scraped at the black soot coating the metal with her fingertip. "I don't like it."

Back at the vertibird, the two pilots managed to extricate the six Mr. Gutsy robots from the plane's side compartments. Once activated, the machines happily went about sentry duty, guarding the vehicle while the Knights were busy with the bunker entrance.

After several unsuccessful hacking attempts and failed lockpickings, the door to the bunker was finally opened through the effective use of brute force tactics. Morras, along with a rather brutishly built Paladin named Haskell, used their power armored arms to pull open the stubborn doors. After five minutes of grunting and groaning, the aged metal creaked open, allowing the Knights entrance.

They were to be disappointed. Beyond the doors was a stairwell leading down to a dark, debris strewn room. Further progress was thwarted by massive concrete and steel rubble, which encompassed the remainder of the room. John, with his experience at wandering the ruins of D.C., was no stranger to wreckage. As an expert in trash, he could tell that the fallen girders and supports were recent and not the result of damage from the War.

"Lang," John called the Scribe when he stomped out of the bunker entrance and back into the bright sun outside. "We've got a mystery here, and I need it solved."

"I'm on it, Paladin." Lang quickly grabbed some Knights and ran towards the vertibird in order to retrieve some equipment.

"The rest of you, keep looking," John told the assembled Knights and Paladins. "Something bad happened here, and I want to know what. Although the men and women of the Mojave chapter aren't part of Elder Lyon's ranks, they are still our Brothers. We need to find them and make sure that they are safe. Remember, we leave no man behind!"

There were some cheers of agreement from the older Knights and Paladins, as well as some muffled mutterings from the younger folk. John and Morras quickly set them to work.

* * *

The overall team consisted of the two vertibird pilots, along with the two Scribes and eighteen Knights that made up the expeditionary force.

The pilots, who were members of the Scribe Cast, not only flew the plane but serviced it and all the equipment that went with it. Their names were Otis Butler and Terese Castala. Butler had come East with Lyon's original members, and was one of the researchers that helped rebuild Liberty Prime. Castala was a Wastelander who journeyed all the way to D.C. from the Deadlands of Jersey. She made the arduous journey when she heard rumors about the safety promised in the Capital Alliance. The young woman then joined up with the Brotherhood of Steel, and through hard work and her keen intellect, managed to move quickly up the Scribe ranks. She often states that her proudest day was when she was chosen to be a pilot for the Brotherhood's vertibird fleet, a high honor among the Scribes.

The other Scribes in the team were Senior Scribe Victoria Lang and her Apprentice, Parker Shields. Lang, a member of Lyon's original group, was in her late twenties and perhaps the youngest of the original Scribes. Although bright, her youth was perhaps the main reason why she was chosen by the Elder for the mission. Such a long journey into what might be enemy territory would have been too trying for any of the older Scribes. Thus, the youngster was picked, though Elder Lyons told Lang personally that he had the utmost confidence in her abilities. Her apprentice, Parker Shields, was a young fifteen year old boy who was unusually bright for a Wastelander. Lang had personally picked him as her apprentice after recognizing the brilliance behind his shy demeanor.

The rest of the team consisted of a mixture of Knights, Paladins, and Initiates. The more senior members were all, with the exception of the Lone Wanderer, original members of the Lyons expedition. The younger members were, of course, Wastelanders, though all were extremely competent in their duties. Unlike the pre-Alliance days, the relatively peaceful state of events of the present allowed the Brotherhood to give their new recruits the training and equipment their predecessors lacked. This made their newer members a much more professional bunch and almost up to the standards of the typical Brotherhood Knight on the West Coast.

Well, perhaps with one exception…

"God, this is so boring," complained one Initiate as she plunked her power armored ass on top of a rock. "We've been walking around this same stupid sand pile for _hours_. When are they gonna call for a lunch break?" She reached up and began undoing the latches on her helmet.

"Damn it, Bittercup! Stop being stupid and get your butt back up! You'll get us in trouble again," screamed her partner, Sasha.

Bittercup, not for the first time, completely ignored the other Initiate. Her T-45d helmet plunked itself onto the sand next to her feet as the young woman shook out her strawberry blond hair. "Damn, it's so stuffy in that stupid tin can." She rolled her stiff neck and took a deep breath of the fresh air. "Wow, it's hot out here."

"Of course it is, moron! It's the desert!" Sasha sneered. "Weren't you listening to the briefing?"

"Of course not, those things are boring." Bittercup looked around the scenery, her hand held up in front of her face to shield it from the bright sun. Thankfully, she had a thick layer of white makeup and black eyes shadow which came in pretty handy in such sunny, arid environments. Ha! And those stupid Paladins kept getting on her case about wearing makeup while in power armor. Guess she showed them!

"Look, just put on your helmet already, will you?" Sasha pleaded. "If Knight Sergeant Morras sees you, he'll make us clean latrines again…" She shuddered at the memory.

"That old balding dork can kiss my plums," Bittercup leaned back against the rock, making herself comfortable. "I've been on my feet all day and I'm tired! I swear, if I knew the Brotherhood did such boring stuff I never would've joined them in the first place!"

Sasha just stared at her lazing partner in shock, absolutely confounded at how such an obvious idiot could have gotten past the Brotherhood's recruitment standards.

"I mean, I joined up for excitement and adventure," Bittercup explained. (This was only partly true. The main reason she joined was because of the fact that Mayor MacCready kicked her out of Big Town when he took over. She wasn't really sure why he did such a thing; all he had said was something about "trimming the fucking fat" before he and his posse ran her out of town. As if! She wasn't fat! Whatever.) "Here I am, stuck in the middle of nowhere. I haven't even shot anything yet! It's so unfair."

"Will you quit com-" Sasha cut herself off when she noticed something. "W-where's your gun?"

"Huh?" The young Initiate blinked her dark eyes and did a cursory look around. "Huh. I guess I dropped it somewhere."

"Y-y-you idiot!" Sasha screamed, absolutely livid. "What is wrong with you?"

"Wrong with _me_?" Bittercup glanced up at her irritated partner, giving the younger girl an annoyed snort. "I'm not the one screaming like a lame super mutant. Jeez, get a grip."

"Don't you realize that if Morras sees you walking around without your weapon, he will absolutely MURDER you? That was a brand new plasma rifle! Don't you know how much those things cost?" Sasha was almost hyperventilating in her helmet.

"Crap, you're right." She gave her partner a worried look. "You don't think they'll dock my pay again, do you? I'm still paying them what I owe for that broken robot."

"You are so… stupid!" Sasha snarled, giving her partner a fierce death glare. The effect was ruined though, since she still had her helmet on. "You are the _worst_ Initiate in the Brotherhood! How the hell did I ever end up being paired with YOU?"

"Oh, shut up!" Bittercup stood up, with some difficulty, and stared down her partner. "You are always complaining about me! Every time I talk to you, it's 'Don't do that, Bittercup' or 'Stop being stupid, Bittercup' or 'Put down those grenades, Bittercup!' I am sick and tired of you always telling me what to do! I'm older than you, dammit! I can do what I want!"

"Is that right?" growled Sasha.

"Damn right it's right!" challenged Bittercup.

Sasha quickly lunged forwards, her fist held back before flying toward's her partner's smirking face.

The sight of the armored glove heading towards her cranium didn't faze Bittercup one bit. She and Sasha had gotten into altercations before, so it was no biggie. Usually such catfights would have been a problem since her outfits and makeup would get messed up, but thankfully the majority of their scuffles tended to be when they were in power armor. Aside from a few dents in the metal, both of them had remained relatively unscathed.

It was then that both Bittercup and Sasha realized that Bittercup was not wearing her helmet.

_Oh crap_, thought the two young women at the same time. Then Sasha's fist met Bittercup's skull with a resounding _CRACK._

In the end, it worked out for the two of them. Sasha explained to a thoroughly irritated Knight Sergeant Morras that Bittercup's injuries were the result of the girl tripping and falling down some steep rocks. The steep incline of the utterly hidden cliff caused her helmet to fly off, thus causing the nasty head wound. Bittercup didn't rat Sasha out because if she did then she'd get in trouble for her missing gun. Bittercup didn't really mind too much, though, since she was then hauled back into the air conditioned vertibird for medical treatment and rest while Sasha was paired with another Initiate for the rest of the day.

So yes. It definitely worked out for the two of them.

* * *

The sun was currently setting, and the expeditionary team attempted to settle down to spending a night in the strange alien landscape of the Mojave. Watches were scheduled and rations given out.

The team leaders themselves were all inside the Hidden Valley bunker entrance. Senior Scribe Lang had set up her scanning equipment, and with the help of the Knights was able to sink the spectro lances deep into the sands outside. She was currently typing on the master computer, reading the information that her equipment was putting out. John and Morras stood nearby, trying their best to look like they knew what was going on.

"As you can see from the spectrographic readings, Star Paladin, the entire complex below us has collapsed. From what I can tell, it was a catastrophic implosion from the fusion reactor. Most likely the result of them setting off the base's self destruct systems." Lang continued typing on the computer's keyboard, bringing up several complex figures on the monitor. "This complex was a military installation, after all. It doesn't surprise me that the old government would have a system in place to keep the facility's secrets from falling into Chinese hands."

John frowned as he studied the data on the screen. "Somehow I doubt that Red China were responsible for this mess, though."

"Indeed." Lang turned in her seat and looked up at the Lone Wanderer. "These numbers show the sensors picking up large amounts of organic material in the ruins below. Large, large amounts. That means that when the self destruct sequence went off, the majority of the Mojave chapter was still in the bunker."

"Are you sure?"

Lang nodded. "There's… there's a lot of dead people down there, John. My guess is that they were taken by surprise. When the self destruct sequence went active, most, if not all of them, couldn't get out in time."

John cursed. "This all sounds like an inside job."

"You don't actually think that one of their own would do something so heinous?" Morras had been silent up until now, but spoke up when John put forth a suggestion that was beyond his ability to comprehend. "With all do respect, Star Paladin Black… for the Knights and Scribes of the Brotherhood, their chapter is their family. The Order is all they know, and their local chapter is all they have. I just can not see any of the Mojave brothers being responsible for this crime."

"Even family have been known to turn against each other," John remarked. "Remember Cain and Abel? My point is, we can't rule it out."

"It could have been the NCR," Lang suggested. "We are near their territory."

John frown deepened. _The New California Republic,_ he thought darkly. _The Great Bear of the West, and proverbial boogey-man for most of the older Brotherhood members._ He had heard many of the older brothers speak of the Republic, and all of what they said were not in a good light. From what he could make out, the NCR were greedy, corrupt savages who would do anything just to gain a few extra caps. The derision was always tempered with the barest of fear and respect though, as it was obvious that this Republic was a force to be reckoned with.

"Could they have the technical know-how to pull off something like this?" John asked.

"I'm not sure," Lang answered, her sharp eyes scanning the data on her computer monitor once more. "It's been decades since our chapter has had any contact with them. They may have gotten pretty tech savvy since we last saw them, but who knows."

"Hmm," John sighed, and leaned back against a nearby metal crate. "Well, whoever caused the destruction here is not our concern. What we need to do is find the Mojave Brotherhood."

"What? But, aren't they all dead?" Morras remarked. "I mean, Scribe Lang's readings…"

"I'm not denying her numbers, Sarge. I'm very confident that they're accurate. But you're forgetting the dispatch we received." John leaned back further on the crate and scratched at his neck. "_Someone_ from the Mojave Chapter sent us a message asking for assistance. A message we received less than three days ago." He quickly stood up and spread his arms around, indicating the debris filled room. "But look at this place! Look at the dust, and the rubble. When this bunker blew, it blew a while ago. Months, maybe even years back."

Morras blinked in confusion. "But the message… it was encrypted. Only Brotherhood could have sent it."

"Exactly." John smiled. "This means that there were survivors. And _those _survivors were the ones who called us."

"Well, where are they then?" Lang asked. "This is where they told us to come. Why haven't they met up with us yet?"

"Think about it," John smirked, slightly enjoying the mystery. "Whoever did this to them, whether it be a traitor or NCR, obviously wants them all dead. So my guess is that the Mojave Brotherhood members who survived the attack went into hiding. They probably sent us here because it's their home turf, and so it's easy for them to get around in if things go bad." He shrugged. "It's most likely that they'll meet up with us eventually; they're probably hiding in the mountains somewhere and waiting for night to fall before coming to meet us. We'll give them till morning. If they haven't showed up yet, I say we go looking for 'em."

Morras nodded. "Sounds good. But is that wise? We don't know the area or the locals. For all we know, the Mojave Brotherhood might not have been well-liked around here. Hell, I'm _betting_ that they weren't. Knowing how Lost Hills operates, I'd be surprised if it wasn't the locals who blew up this bunker. We might stir up a hornet's nest if we go traipsing about scaring wastelanders."

"You have a point," John conceded. "We'll keep our reconnaissance small, and non-descript. No power armor and just basic weapons. We're just looking for our lost relatives, after all, not starting a war."

"Understood. I'll have some of the Knights scout out the area. We'll be better off if we have a good lay of the land." The Knight Sergeant saluted before tromping out of the bunker.

Lang looked up from her monitor and gave John a worried glance. "Do you really think some of the Mojave Brothers survived?"

"There's no doubt about it," he replied. "Actually, I'm more worried about us. This desert is the Mojave Brotherhood's territory. They know the lay of the land, the local populace, the political situation. We don't. We're thousands of miles from the Alliance, and twenty-plus hours from any help or aid. There's twenty of us against who knows how many that attacked the Mojave chapter. We need to keep on our toes, Lang. Personally, I think this whole thing might be a big mistake. Don't get me wrong, once we meet up with the Mojave brothers, we'll see what they have to say and help out if we can. But my gut tells me that we shouldn't get involved here. The Brotherhood and the Alliance already have enough problems with the Line. We don't need to get dragged into another mess with people we don't even know."

What John didn't know was that less than a few miles away, high atop the peak of Black Mountain, trouble was brewing.

* * *

**APPENDIX**

**Capital Wasteland Brotherhood Power Armor: **After the defeat of the Enclave by the Capital Wasteland Chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel, a whole slew of technological wonders had become available to the Brotherhood. The treasure trove included, but were not limited to, advanced power armor, new energy sources, vertibirds, weaponry, and robotics. The Citadel was quick to incorporate much of what they scavenged from the Enclave, which allowed the Brotherhood dominance in many Wasteland altercations. It was due to these new technologies that helped the Alliance eliminate both the slavers in Paradise Falls as well as the super mutant menace.

The abundance of power armor has allowed the Lyons chapter to equip all its Knights with armor. The type of armor issued to the Knight depends on rank. Initiates receive the old T-45d power armor. The older armor is issued to them not only to denote their lower rank, but also because the older model is easier to learn in. Most of the Initiates' duties is to train under a Knight, and as they are still learning it is much easier to use the T-45d, not to mention less expensive if they somehow manage to break them. Also, once Initiates become Knights, a ceremony is held in which they are presented their new T-51b armor. This gives a sense of accomplishment to the new Knight, as the new armor symbolizes their growth in the Brotherhood.

Knights are usually on patrol, and thus use the more advanced T-51b. This allows them superior protection and control during firefights with the occasional raider or criminal, though the recent peaceful times have diminished their patrol roles somewhat. The patrolling has been mostly taken over by the local community militias, such as Rivet City security and the Big Town Badasses. The Knights of the Brotherhood now serve the role of the Alliance's standing army, ready to take on any force that threatens the nation.

Paladins, as the leaders and officers in charge of the Knights, often don Advance Power Armor, either Mk I or Mk II depending on availability. The Tesla variants are assigned to those who specialize in energy weapons. The superior performance of these armors allows the Paladins to fulfill their roles, as well as put forth a commanding front to both allies and enemies.

The rare Hellfire armor is reserved for those few members who show remarkable skill, courage and bravery and have been shining examples of excellence. Sentinel Lyons wears one, as do all members of the Lyon's Pride. Star Paladin Black, aka the Lone Wanderer, also dons this armor. Although Star Paladin Cross had been awarded a set, she chooses to continue wearing her T-45d as she prefers the older armor.


	5. Chapter 4: Incident at Black Mountain

**Chapter Four: Incident at Black Mountain**

The facility at Black Mountain, once overrun with homicidal super mutants, was now a barren and deserted ruin. No one dared walk its radioactive peak, as there were rumors that the place was haunted. The stories tell of how the angry, spiteful ghosts of those mutants killed by the Right Hand of Vegas still stalked the grounds and how they sought vengeance against any human who dared set foot there. At least, that's what is said. Many a folk would question the validity of such tales, reason being that the majority of the stories were spread by a crazy old man from Novac. People also doubted that the famous Courier could have been singularly responsible for the super mutant killings; after all, the woman hardly looked like your typical badass killing machine.

The girl in question was young, perhaps only two decades old, with dark brown hair and hazel eyes. Her stature, though not quite short, wasn't very tall either. Her arms were willowy, her legs tone though not muscular, and her clothing did not consist of any type of armor, powered or otherwise. Indeed, despite her rather grim reputation, the Courier would be considered quite attractive. She cut a very stylish figure in her black suit and tie, with a crisp white linen shirt unstained with grime. Her skirt was stylish, as it was not short enough to be obscene, yet not so long as to seem frumpy. Black hose covered her legs which she tried her best to keep the runs out of, though it was understandably difficult due to her lifestyle. A pair of clunky brown combat boots adorned her feet most of the time, but she tended to change into a pair of black flats or high heels during more formal events. Bookish glasses with thin silver frames completed the look, which only added to her classy, intellectual appearance. A casual observer would have pegged her for a doctor or a scientist. Maybe even an erudite secretary. Indeed, if you didn't know who she was, you would never have guessed that the young brunette in front of you was a vicious, cold blooded killer.

"This place is as much of a dump as I remember," the Courier remarked while looking around the Black Mountain ruins. Ed-E, her floating eyebot companion, beeped in agreement.

The two of them had arrived at the foot of Black Mountain about two hours back. They were in search of the mysterious flying machine that Mr. House had spoken of. Originally, she had been escorted by six Securitrons, but the Courier decided to leave them behind near the trash pile that used to be the super mutant Neil's shack. Despite the protection a squad of heavily armed robots could provide, they were hardly subtle. And since she was on a fact-finding mission, subtlety trumped massive firepower.

The two were currently just entering the facility proper, making their way past the gate and towards the first set of buildings which was near the massive, central crater atop the peak. Originally the result of a Chinese missile, the former residents of Black Mountain had used the pit as a handy trash disposal area. Chunks of junk and debris were at the bottom of the crater, and the entire area still exuded an unhealthy radioactive aura.

The Courier's pip-boy began ticking out a warning, its onboard Geiger counter showing the unhealthy rad levels surrounding them. She paid it no heed and continued onwards past the Pre-War scar in the earth. Thankfully, employment with Mr. House included the best health care in the Wasteland. She'd get her radiation poisoning tended to after she found that damn air machine.

The radiation warning stopped when she and Ed-E began ascending the hill towards the top of Black Mountain. In the distance she could see the familiar radio towers and satellite dish of the facility, machinery that was once responsible for the bizarre programming that Tabitha had spat out into the airwaves. Thankfully, the Courier used her violent talents to get rid of the ridiculous and insane super mutant, and thus the frequencies were once more quiet, with only the soothing artificial voice of Mr. New Vegas sounding through the radios.

"Hey, remember when we came here last?" the Courier asked Ed-E, who merely beeped back in answer. "Remember all those Nightkin? Man, it was a pain getting rid of all of 'em, especially with how they'd be invisible and sneak up behind us and shit. Fucking losers," she spat. "I can never respect anybody who doesn't attack you head on. It's just more sporting that way, ya know?"

Ed-E clicked in agreement.

"Ha, didn't matter much in the end though. They'd sneak up, but then you'd blast 'em with lasers, Boone'd snipe 'em with his .50 cal, and I'd punch them with a powerfist. Ahhh... good times."

The Courier continued reminiscing as she and Ed-E entered the main compound. She looked around the deserted buildings, still finding no sign of the flying machine. She idly wondered if Mr. House's information had been correct. She didn't doubt the validity of the aerial vehicle's existence, just the direction the info claimed it was heading. Perhaps the Securitron that spotted it was wrong, and the machine was flying _away_ from Black Mountain. Or maybe the lead was right and the plane _was_ heading in the direction of Black Mountain, but then flew past it and continued further west? Whatever the case may be, her employer had tasked her with an assignment. This was the only thing that mattered, and she would complete said assignment. If nothing else, the Courier was a consummate professional. That's why a genius like Mr. House counted on her. She would not let him down.

Ed-E beeped out a warning when the two of them reached the courtyard's center.

"Pick up something on your sensors?" she asked the robot. It clicked in an affirmative. "How many?"

Ed-E clicked four times.

"Cool." The Courier smirked. She always felt more comfortable in dangerous situations. Quickly composing herself and trying her best to look non-threatening, the brown haired woman took a deep breath and yelled out. "I know you're there! Come on out!"

She stood still patiently, giving whoever was hiding enough time to think about their situation. If they were smart, they'd just stay where they were and only send one of their number out to talk. That way they'd still find out what if she was a danger, all the while keeping the majority of their forces safe and sound.

After a few moments, two rather ragged looking men emerged from behind the building where Raul had been kept hostage. They wore the typically drab wasteland gear of Brahmin skin and coarse fabrics. Two more similarly attired thugs exited the main building. All were armed with clubs and other improvised melee weapons, except for one man who had a 10mm pistol tucked into his belt.

_Well, looks like smarts aren't with this bunch,_ the Courier thought to herself with some measure of disappointment. It was obvious that these raggedy hooligans were not the pilots of the mysterious flying machine. All of them looked like a low bred bunch: too stupid to be honest wastelanders, but too undisciplined and lazy to be real criminals. They were most likely just a bunch of squatters, wasteland trash that was using the remains of Black Mountain as their little hidey hole, pissing and shitting in the corners and trying their best not to sleep on their own filth.

"Well, well, well. What do we have here?" asked one of the squatters as the four approached. He was the oldest and meanest looking of the bunch, with a shaved head and burn scars along his right cheek. This man was also the one with the gun, though he made no move to grab it. He, along with the other men in his company, seemed much too busy leering at the Courier to bother with being cautious. She supposed she couldn't blame them for being careless; after all, the only thing in front of them was a slight, well dressed young woman who was unarmed along with a floating, junky looking robot. Their tiny, feeble inbred minds couldn't put the thoughts together that was necessary to warn one of danger. They didn't question why anyone, female or not, would be wandering around in the wasteland unarmed. Big mistake on their parts.

Besides, with the way they were staring at her it was obvious that these morons hadn't had any female company in a while. Their brains had obviously shut off upon setting sight of her, and all thoughts were now being processed by their little heads.

"She's quite the fancy sight, ain't she boys?" the leader asked, his tone demeaning. The other three nodded and grinned as they quickly surrounding her. Ed-E was studiously ignored. "Now what's a posh little slot like you doing all the way up here, little missy?" The leader stepped closer, his dull brown eyes roaming her form without shame. "Don't ya know that it's dangerous to be out here all alone? There are bad, bad men out in the desert, girlie. Bad men who're about ta do bad stuff to such a hot little number. Heh heh heh…"

The Courier ignored the man's vile comments, choosing instead to remain on topic. "Sooo… you four lived here long?" She raised a thin eyebrow, giving each man a curious stare. "Obviously you moved in sometime during the last two years. Otherwise you'd be super mutant food."

The men, though, were ignoring her words, as only her body held their attention. The leader got really close to her and reached out, grasping her tightly by the hips. "Oh, I haven't had a woman as fine as you in a long, long time," he said, stating the obvious. "This is gonna be great, boys!" He grinned as his hands moved downwards, slimy palms groping along her backside. The others merely laughed, thoroughly enjoying themselves and grinning in anticipation of what was to come.

_Ugh, looks like I'm gonna have to get their attention._ The Courier rolled her eyes.

To the leader's surprise, the girl he was about to ravage looked up into his eyes and smiled. He felt a cold pit of dread in his stomach, because the smile she had just given him was definitely not a nice one. No, it was the complete _opposite_ of nice.

The Courier returned the leader's actions, her hands moving up and grasping at his hips. The squatter flinched upon feeling the surprisingly strong fingers dig fiercely into his skin. Then, with as much force as she could muster, the girl brought her knee in a vicious upwards motion, slamming it into the vile cretin's groin. The leader choked on his breath as he felt his insides melt, the taste of bile and vomit rushing up his throat. He dropped to his knees in absolute agony, only for his nose to be met by the woman's other knee, which smashed the bone to pieces. The lead squatter cried out, the blow causing him to fly backwards, a thick geyser of blood erupting from his shattered face.

The other three men gaped in shock, too flabbergasted at what happened to their leader to act. Only when the Courier lashed out with a savage punch to the nearest squatter did they snap out of their still states. One man, a thin sickly looking youngster with ugly growths on his neck, tried to hit her in the face with his lead pipe. The Courier moved swiftly, her motions fluid as the air. She dodged his clumsy blow, her right hand shooting out and grabbing the wrist while her other arm reared back before lashing forwards in a brisk jab. Her palm impacted at the elbow joint, resulting in a resounding _crack _and a loud, agonized wail. The hoodlum dropped to his knees clutching at his broken limb, allowing the Courier to grab the young man by the head. She then twisted violently, easily snapping his neck.

The remaining squatter watched as his friend's body dropped to the ground, the sight of which sent him mad. He screamed in hatred and rushed towards the Courier, swinging his club wildly. Ed-E chose that moment to intervene, targeting sensors activating. It blasted the man with its laser attachment, hitting him twice in the back. The red beams quickly vaporized him, leaving nothing but a cloud of ash.

"Well, that was fun," the Courier remarked as she headed towards the leader, who was still squirming on the ground in pain from his injuries. The man she had punched in the face earlier dropped his club and backed away, hands lifting up in surrender. The Courier ignored him as she strode past, though Ed-E did not. The robot let loose a beam, hitting the poor squatter in the chest and setting his clothing on fire. The man ran about screaming as he slowly burned to death, desperately attempting to douse the flames engulfing him. Ed-E, instead of finishing the man off, merely watched as he roasted alive. It clicked and twittered in amusement.

The Courier looked back at the sight and laughed, proudly watching the robot work. She had spent months digging around in Ed-E's mainframe, reprogramming the eyebot's behavior so that it would conduct itself in a manner more suited to her tastes. The task had been a lot of hard work, but eventually she completed the upgrades to the robot's computational matrix. The results were a much more efficient and bloodthirsty killing machine.

The leader looked on in horror as his men were systematically killed one by one by the bitch and her crazy robot. Not only did the two slaughter his friends so effortlessly, but they both seemed to relish the task immensely. He had been a former raider, but even at the heights of his drug-induced hysteria, he had never seen anything as brutal as this.

The man knew that he only had once chance for survival, and that was to fight back. He summoned all his willpower, pushing through the pain of his crushed testicles and broken nose as he attempted to draw his gun.

The Courier saw the remaining hood fumbling for his weapon, but he was having some difficulties removing it from his belt. "On no you don't!" she rushed over just as the man managed to pull the pistol out, but before he could aim it in her direction she lashed out with a swift, powerful kick. Her foot slammed the man's hand against his chest, pinning the gun against tightly his body. Now, this was all she had intended to do; but unfortunately for the wanna-be rapist his finger had tightened on the trigger and the gun discharged, sending a 10 mm round directly into his crotch.

"SHIT!" the leader howled aloud as his torment intensified tenfold. He screamed and shouted, writhing on the ground in absolute pain.

"Wow," the Courier said, chuckling and in utter bemusement at the man's plight. "You're having a _really_ bad fucking day, aren't you?"

"Fuck you, bitch! FUCK YOU!" The man ranted and spat, dropping the gun as his hands clutched at his ruined nether regions. "Fucking bitch! Fucking whore! God damn fucking cow!"

The object of his derision knelt next to his writhing form and directed a vicious punch against his already broken nose. The man squealed and brought his right hand up to protect his face, leaving the left shield what was left of his groin. "Shut up, asshole. You've had your fun. It's my turn to talk."

"Fuck you!" the man spat out. "I ain't gonna tell you shit!"

"Is that right?" The Courier reached down and picked up the man's gun. She gave him the same demented smile she had presented earlier, and this time he shut up. The brunette pushed the weapon against the man's left hand, which was all that protected what was left of his manhood. The leader whimpered in fear, his brown eyes, which had been so malicious not five minutes before, now looking much like a rabbit's. "You gonna talk, or am I going to have to get _really_ nasty?" God, she loved torturing and killing people with their own guns. There was just something so twisted and wrong about it. It was like raping someone with their own dicks.

"Okay, OKAY!" the man squeaked. "What the hell do you want?"

"A flying machine was seen heading here," she said, tapping the barrel of the gun against the man's hand as she spoke. "Did you happen to see it?"

"A… a flying machine? Yeah, yeah. Earlier this morning. It… flew around a bit, scoping us out. But we hid. And it flew away." The man was having trouble breathing, and his head felt light. Perhaps it was the shock and blood loss finally catching up with him.

A sharp slap brought him out of it. "Focus, dumbfuck. Where'd it go?"

"Huh? Oh… down in the… valley. It flew down into the valley."

The Courier nodded, looking up at the slowly setting sun. She fell into thought, completely ignoring her surroundings. The man's harsh breaths, the red sky above; everything was secondary and put out of her focus. Her sharp mind was busy piecing together all the clues that had been presented to her. First of all, there was the mysterious flying machine. It was highly advanced, even more so than the Pre-War designs if Mr. House was correct and he usually was. Then there was the fact that it had flown down into Hidden Valley. There was nothing of interest there, not anymore. She had made sure of that. But the information narrowed down her list of suspects.

Whoever these mysterious flying folk were, they had advanced tech as well as connections to Hidden Valley. There were only two groups that came to mind when all the evidence was in place. It was either the Enclave Remnants, or…

She smiled. "Veronica, you sly minx. Are you calling the cavalry? Tsk tsk tsk… naughty."

"H-huh?" the leader asked, not fully understanding what the psychopathic bitch was babbling about.

"Oh, nothing to concern yourself with. You're gonna be dead in a few seconds." The Courier stood up and began dusting herself off. Thankfully, her suit was still immaculate, with only a bit of dust at her knees.

"Ed-E," she called out, and the robot floated towards here. "We're done here." She aimed the pistol down at the leader's prone form and fired, putting a round into the man's chest. She then repeated the action, emptying the magazine and filling the hood's corpse with lead. "Something tells me we're gonna need more guys." The brunette sighed and dropped the gun atop its owner's body. It clunked against his chest, then slid off his still rib cage, dropping onto the dusty ground with the barrel still smoking.

The Courier turned around and began walking towards the exit. "Radio down to our escorts and have two of them head into Hidden Valley. I want them to recon the area and report back if they find anything. Recon only! I wanna see what we're up against first, so tell those trigger happy rust buckets to keep it in their pants."

She and Ed-E continued on down the path, making their way towards the path that would lead to the base of the mountain. Her Geiger counter sounded off again when they reached the crater, and once more she chose to ignore it. Radiation, smadiation. Only pussies worried about little things like RAD poisoning and extra limb growth.

"Oh, and have the rest of the Securitrons meet us at McCarren," she told Ed-E as a plan formed in her head. "I think it's about time we put the Model 02s to work…" The Courier grinned, thoroughly enjoying this new assignment. She so _loved_ to solve a good mystery.

In fact, the only thing she loved more than solving mysteries was killing them.

* * *

**APPENDIX**

**The Courier**

_S.P.E.C.I.A.L._: ST 6, PE 6, EN 8, CH 5, IN 9, AG 7, LK 6

_TRAITS_: Four Eyes, Small Frame

_TAGGED SKILLS:_ Science, Unarmed, Repair, Guns

_PERKS_: Black Widow, Cherchez La Femme, Gunslinger, Intense Training, Toughness, Quick Draw, Stonewall, Super Slam, Finesse, Nerd Rage!, Night Person, Piercing Strike, Robotics Expert, Center of Mass, Jury Rigging, Purifier, Tag!, Paralyzing Palm, Solar Powered, Nuka Chemist, Slayer, Lord Death, Beautiful Beatdown, Legion Assault, Ranger Takedown, Scribe Counter.

_IMPLANTS_: Agility Implant, Endurance Implant, Perception Implant, Luck Implant, Sub-Dermal Armor

_KARMA_: Neutral

_FACTION_: Mr. House


	6. Chapter 5: Bullets Over Goodsprings

**Chapter Five: Bullets Over Goodspring**

"Top you off?"

John glanced up from the bottom of his empty glass. Trudy, the owner of the saloon as well as mayor of the small town containing said saloon, hovered over him from across the bar with a bottle of brandy in hand. John flashed her a toothy smile and nodded. "Thank you, please."

As the amber liquid filled the glass, he noted Trudy's eyes scanning over his features. John couldn't help himself as his own returned the gesture. He grinned as he eyed the woman appreciatively. Desert living truly had done wonders for the locals.

From what he'd seen after three days of traveling, the War had not ravaged the Mojave as viciously as the rest of the country. The region was relatively radiation free. This fact, coupled with the abundance of fresh, clean water, led to a very stable environment. An environment that promoted a healthier population all around.

And (John was very appreciative of this fact) a healthy population meant an overabundance of drop-dead gorgeous women. In the short time he had been traveling the Mojave, the Star Paladin had met numerous examples of beauty, both on the road and in the settlements he stopped at.

Of course, D.C. too had its share of attractive females. But those women were remarkably different from the variety found in the Mojave. Despite their beauty, the harsher climate of the Capital Wastes had left its mark. The women of the east, with a few exceptions, were rougher, grittier, and didn't smile as much as those in the west. They had a pale cast, along with a less than wholesome glow to their eyes. Theirs was a lifetime of rough, hellish living, one filled with super mutants and raiders, where there was no clean water, the rocky earth refused to grow anything, and the sky was never blue while the air was always stale. These hardships affected people deeper than any physical wound, though that in a way gave them a beauty all their own.

"Where'd you guys say you were from again?" Trudy asked after topping off John's glass.

The Lone Wanderer paused for a fraction of a second, his mind ready with the story he and his party had agreed upon if ever the locals asked. Two search parties, each made up of four personnel, (One lead by himself and the other by a Paladin named Cutter) had set out early the next morning after waiting the night. When it became apparent that the Mojave Brotherhood would not be contacting them, it was decided that they would go out and find their elusive brethren instead. Both search groups would head out into the local communities to gather intelligence on the region and hopefully find information about the lost chapter. Cutter's group headed east while John's went west. They each had a radio in hand so that they could contact the camp in case they managed to secure any information. Knight Sergeant Morras, as the next highest ranking Paladin in the expeditionary force, would keep charge of the camp.

"We all came from back east," John said in answer to Trudy's question. "Originally from Colorado. Me and my friends headed west through Utah on our way to California." John took a glance behind him and saw Paladins Cody and Horner (sans power armor) at a booth chatting up a friendly hunter named Sunny Smiles, who by the way, was _another_ gorgeous woman. These West Coasters sure were spoiled.

"Colorado, huh?" Trudy gave a whistle. "That must have been a long trip."

_You have no idea,_ thought John as he took a sip of his brandy.

"We don't get too many folks going west," Trudy continued. "Most of the ones who pass by Goodsprings are either tourists or trade caravans, and all of them head north to Vegas."

"Vegas?"

Trudy laughed. "You've never heard of Vegas? Really?" At John's nod, the dark haired woman laughed again. "Oh, god. You guys really _are_ from out of town, aren't you?"

"'Fraid so," John grinned, raising his glass at her. "Country bumpkin all the way."

"Hey, I'll drink to that," Trudy filled her own small glass with brandy and clinked it against John's. "Goodsprings is as out of the way in the Mojave as you can get." She took a short sip before continuing. "Anyway, yeah, New Vegas is pretty much the main attraction around here. We get all sorts of folk coming up from the Long 15, all of them heading to the Strip to throw their caps away." The brunette snorted in disgust before taking another sip from her glass. "Whatever, it's a free country, right? They wanna lose their hard-earned money in the casinos, it's on them. By all rights I should be thankful, since they spend their caps here on the way north. Their misfortune is good for the town, I guess. At least House has that fancy railroad running from the Strip straight to California, which most tourists take when heading back west. At least we don't have to deal with the idiots when they go home broke."

John noted the name Trudy had said, as well as the mild contempt she used while speaking it. "Who's this House?"

"Oh. _Mr. _House. Our lord-on-high and fearless leader," Trudy snorted in derision. "He pretty much runs the entire Mojave, or the _Free Economic Zone of New Vegas_, as he likes to call it. Fancy name for what's pretty much just a massive shit hole. Oh well, he leaves us pretty much alone, so I shouldn't complain. The only annoying thing is that I'm on the Board of Directors for this 'Free Economic' whatever, and I have to walk my ass all the way to Vegas every two months for the meeting. Pretty god damn pointless since we don't ever talk about anything important, but I guess we all gotta do our parts so that the big, bad overlord stays happy and keeps out of our business."

"Oh come on, Trudy," Sunny looked back towards the two from her booth and gave the older woman a smile. "House can't be all bad. I mean, the Courier does work for him, after all."

"Yeah, well, that kid didn't exactly strike me as the best judge of character." Upon seeing John's confused look, Trudy explained further. "Oh, the Courier is our town's little baby. She's really quite the success story." The bartender leaned in close and sipped at her drink, her voice turning low, as if she were sharing a secret. "We don't know her real name; nobody does. The poor thing was attacked outside our town, we think while she was on her way to make a delivery. The crooks shot her in the head and left her for dead in the cemetery. Thankfully, she was still alive, though God only knows how. It's a damn miracle that little girl wasn't dead as a doornail after a bullet to the pan.

"Doc Mitchell, he's the town physician, managed to fix her up almost good as new. Sadly, 'cause of the injury, she couldn't remember anything about herself. Not even her name. Girl helped us out while she was here though, and was pretty damn good with a gun after Sunny over there taught her the basics. I hear she even managed to track down those assholes that tried to kill her and returned the favor, only she did a much better job at it than they did."

"Wow," John muttered. "This girl sounds like a badass."

Trudy and Sunny chuckled. "Oh no, don't get the wrong idea," the mayor said. "She's really a sweet kid."

A jaunty cowboy tune had just finished playing from the radio, and soon the soothing voice of the DJ filtered through the speakers. "_Howdy folks, Mr. New Vegas here with some important news. I know you're all going to enjoy hearing it, as it's to do with everyone's favorite little law bringer, the Courier..."_

All the locals in the saloon stopped their conversations and let out loud cheers and whistles upon hearing the name. John raised an eyebrow while and his Paladins glanced around; all the out of towners in the saloon were wondering just who this Courier girl might be to elicit such a response from the townsfolk.

_"_Well, speak of the devil," Trudy smiled, reaching over to the radio to turn up the volume.

_"It has been confirmed that the notorious outlaw Samuel Cooke, along with his vicious cadre of Powder Gangers, has been killed in a vicious firefight with the Right Hand of Vegas herself. Cooke's death brings to an end his two year reign of terror that claimed the lives of 64 confirmed victims, forty-five of whom were NCR citizens. We at Radio New Vegas managed to catch the Courier while she was at McCarren Airfield and managed to get a comment."_

The voice switched to that of a young woman."_Cooke?" _the voice stated, sounding both young and gruff._ "Please. That bleep! went down like a bleep!."_

Mr. New Vegas' calming tone came back on, this time chuckling softly. "_Well said, Ms. Courier. Well said. Hmm, I don't know about you folks, but I'm definitely going to be sleeping well tonight. Random explosions don't make for a good night's rest."_

"Hot damn," Sunny grinned. "She finally got that bastard."

"Yeah, good riddance." Trudy drank the last of her brandy and turned to John. "As you can see, we're all pretty proud of our Courier. She's been doing a lot of good out there, even if she does work for a shark like Mr. House."

"Yes, she sounds like a real hero," John said with a smile. He just hoped he never got to meet this Courier. She sounded way too much like him that it was scary. She even had the radio announcers spreading news about her exploits! "And I thought Three Dog was bad," he muttered as he sipped his drink.

A stray thought brought his attention back to the other members of his party. He turned around and glanced back at Cody and Horner, who were still busy speaking with Sunny. There was one member of their group that was conspicuously absent.

"Guys," he spoke up, causing both Paladins to turn their attention away from the attractive female and back to their superior. "Where's Bittercup?"

* * *

"So, yeah, we're here looking for those stupid Mojave chapter guys, who, by the way, were no-shows and left us hanging," Bittercup said as she sat against the side of a dilapidated shed, morosely spilling her soul to the machine nearby.

"Is that right?" said machine asked, his artificial voice sounding very interested.

"Damn right I'm right." The young woman slumped further down, getting her borrowed pants even more covered with dust. It didn't matter much to her though since she absolutely hated the jeans and flannel shirt she was currently wearing. In the beginning she was so happy to be going with one of the search teams to look for signs of the Mojave chapter. It sounded great at first. Finally, a chance to get away from old man Morrass and that whiny bitch Sasha! She'd also get to explore the nearby towns and maybe buy some cute stuff. But the best reason was definitely the fact that the search party couldn't bring their power armor, so she'd get to wear her own clothes.

But then it all fell apart. First the jerks made her change her clothes, saying that the civilian items she brought along in her personal bag was too "flashy" for an undercover mission. As if! She looked great in that purple halter top and black leather mini! Now she was stuck wearing Sasha's ugly wastelander jeans and shirt. They even made her wash off her makeup! What a bunch of baloney! So in the end, while Sasha got to stay behind and relax back at the Vertibird, she was running around the hot, dusty desert with three stick-up-their-butts Paladins. How lame.

Thankfully she managed to find a really cool robot who was also a great listener. Bittercup had met a fair number of robots in her time since leaving Little Lamplight. She had always liked robots, ever since she was a little kid, and thought every single one of the contraptions she had met was totally cool. Strangely enough almost all of the ones she did meet had tried to kill her, which was so unfair by the way. But this robot was different; he actually listened instead of shooting. Plus he had a really cool voice, one that didn't sound all fake and grating.

Bittercup looked up at her mechanical companion, noting his strange uni-wheel design and boxy, upper torso. A monochrome monitor was located right in his center, from which the image of a smiling cartoon cowboy was projected. A tin star with the words "Sunset Sarsaparilla" etched upon its surface had been attached next to the screen, making the robot seem like an old-fashioned Wild West sheriff.

"So, miss. You're sayin' that you're with them Brotherhood o' Steel folk?" the Securitron named Victor asked.

"Yeah, I know. I don't look like one of those square bucket heads. But I did join up with 'em. Didn't have anywhere else to go, really." Bittercup shrugged, and looked out into the town of Goodsprings. It was kind of weird seeing a town with no walls. How did these people keep all the raiders and slavers from coming in to get them?

"And you say y'all are from back east?" Victor continued asking.

"Yep. Capital Wasteland. Well, it's more the 'Capital Alliance' now. Things aren't as bad as they were a few years ago. We got a real government now, just like before the bombs fell. So there's less raiders, slavers, mutants, and other assholes running around, which means that more traders can come in and sell us really cool stuff. This one time, there was a merchant who had a really neato makeup set, one with real mascara and eyeliner! He said he got it all the way up in Ronto, and that it was made from bat poo or something like that. What sucks is I couldn't afford it, and the jerk wouldn't give me a discount unless I did some nasty stuff for him, which _so_ wasn't gonna happen, and then-"

"Are there any more of you around?" Victor interrupted, lest the girl go off on another tangent. "In town, I mean."

"Hmm? Oh, yeah. There's John, he's the leader of the expedition. He's the Lone Wanderer, just in case you didn't know. I met him way back before he was famous, and I'm like his best friend. I thought he was real cute and wanted to like, go steady, you know. But he was like, 'No, my only love is my dad,' or some shit like that. Kinda weird, but whatever. But I guess it was good that me and him never got together, cuz he went on to be like the Savior of the Wastes and all that. I don't think I could live a life in the spotlight, you know?"

"Oh yes, that's mighty interesting," Victor said, feeling extremely grateful that the ability to lie was included in his programming. "So... how many cow pokes did ya say was in your posse?"

"Well, in town there's John, me and those two Paladin guys whose names I don't know," Bittercup answered, counting out with her fingers. "The other search group had four guys, too. They went east, towards another town I think, one with a big dinosaur. I so wanted to go there, but no, we had to come to this dump. Oh, and, uh, back at base, there should be fourteen left, including that bitch Sasha."

"Well, now. That is _very_ interesting." This time when he said it, Victor wasn't lying. "Tell me more."

* * *

John was worried. From what he could gather, Bittercup had been gone on her own for more than an hour. He didn't doubt that she could handle herself; one didn't survive the Capital Wasteland for as long as she did without learning a bit of self defense. It was the trouble that Bittercup could get into that had him worried. The girl had an almost supernatural skill at causing mischief. It wasn't that she had any intent of cruelty or malice; she just didn't think things through before doing it and was totally incapable of behaving responsibly.

Oh yeah, and she was dumb as a post, too.

So why then, do you ask, would John not only allow her to be part of his search party, but be a member of the expedition at all? Well, the quick answer would be that John Black was just too nice a guy. If you thought about it, he shows all the classic symptoms of what most folk would call a White Knight Complex. He wanted to save everything and everyone, and this included the idiots and the morons of the world.

He also felt somewhat responsible for Bittercup's situation. The strange young woman had been accepted into the Brotherhood of Steel mostly due to his recommendation. It all started some months back when she had come to him in tears, telling the tale of how Mayor MacCready and the rest of the citizenry in Big Town ran her off with pitch forks and torches. As she wept, the girl explained how she had nowhere else to go and asked if she could please please please join his "kick ass" organization.

Feeling sorry for her, John said that he would put in a good word with the recruiters. Well, it seemed like the word of the legendary Lone Wanderer went a long way in the Brotherhood's recruitment wing, since Bittercup was not only accepted into the ranks but fast-tracked through training. This had not been John's intent, and he was a bit irritated to hear that word had gotten around that the new Initiate knew him personally. (Most likely through Bittercup's own statements.) Because of this, some of her instructors had been going easy on her. John had been hoping that the Brotherhood's strict training regimen and no-nonsense idealism would whip the somewhat lazy girl into shape, but sadly not too many of the trainers wanted to be seen insulting the Lone Wanderer by disciplining his young friend. Only Knight Sergeant Gunny ever took Bittercup to task, but that ended when the man was promoted to Knight Captain and was put in charge of Citadel security. Thus Bittercup's training had remained rather lax, regardless of how many times John tried to correct it.

Bittercup wasn't the only thing that had John worried. From the information he had managed to gather from the locals during this outing, it seemed that the Mojave Brotherhood were not very well liked. Not by the local citizenry, and definitely not by the New Vegas government. In fact, along the wall next to the saloon's restrooms were a large set of wanted posters of the region's most notorious outlaws. Prominent among them were several members of the Mojave chapter, a fact that did not make John feel good about his chances of finding them.

From the posters he was able to gather that the leaders of the troublesome Brotherhood chapter was a Paladin named Edward Hernandez and a Scribe called Veronica Santangelo. These two had the highest rewards offered, each going for 5000 caps dead, 6000 alive. With a price like that on their heads, John was surprised that the two were still running around free; mercs and bounty hunters back east would have swarmed en masse for a payout like that. Hell, even _he_ was tempted to go find and turn them in.

"Thank you so much for the hospitality, ma'am," John told Trudy as he finished off his brandy. He placed a large stack of caps onto the bar in payment for the drinks along with a very generous tip. "But my friends and I need to get going."

"So soon?" the dark haired woman asked, sounding disappointed.

"Afraid so. We need to hit the road if we're to get to California on time." He flashed the saloon owner a bright smile before standing up from his well-worn barstool. Paladins Cody and Horner saw him and did the same, bidding Sunny a good day. Horner patted her dog Cheyenne as he slid himself out of their booth.

"Well, you boys have a good trip," Trudy said, returning John's smile. "And if you ever find yourselves passing by this way again, be sure to stop by and I'll give you the first round on the house."

John laughed. "That's mighty kind of you, ma'am. We just might do that." He donned his hat while hefting his laser rifle up onto his shoulder, mentally preparing himself for the long trek back to Hidden Valley. "You take care."

"So long."

Cody and Horner said similar farewells to Sunny and the other locals they had befriended, and soon the three Paladins were off.

"Man, what friendly people," Horner remarked as the three exited the saloon. A warm breeze blew into his face from the desert outside, making him flinch slightly.

"Tell me about it," agreed Cody. "Can you believe how beautiful the women are out here?" He scratched his scruffy blonde hair and smiled. "I wonder if I can transfer to the Mojave Chapter when we find them. This place is paradise! Plenty of food and water, no radiation, and gorgeous girls everywhere!"

"Yeah, who wouldn't wanna stay here? D.C. fucking sucks compared to this heaven."

John listened to the two younger men's conversation with a frown. He wondered if he should speak up and reprimand them, reminding the two that they had all sworn an oath upon joining the Brotherhood. Their duty was the protection of the weak and innocent, and to uphold the laws of the Alliance. Nothing else mattered.

In the end, though, he decided to let it go. The two Paladins had had a few drinks, and the last three days were quite stressful. Everyone needed to blow off some steam, and talking about things that one was never going to do was pretty much a form of relaxation in a discipline-heavy organization like the Brotherhood. It was healthy and it hurt nobody; God knows he's done a lot of the same type of bitching in his time.

"Hey, it's Bittercup," remarked Horner. Along the road outside the saloon strolled the girl, who was looking uncharacteristically wholesome in her humble clothing and lack of makeup. She saw the three and waved, increasing her pace to catch up to them.

"And a robot," Cody added when it became clear that there was a large, wheeled robot following along with the girl.

John eyed the machine with equal parts curiosity and dread. He had never seen a robot like this one before. It had a mono-wheel design, with a top-heavy frame and two multi-pronged arms. A tv screen of sorts was at its center, though the only program on seemed to be a cowboy cartoon. Some joker had also stuck a tin star on it's "chest," making it look like a Sheriff from one of those old pre-War movies. Lucas Simms would have loved this thing.

"Initiate," John spoke up when Bittercup and the weird contraption were within speaking distance. "What did you bring with you?"

The young woman smiled and pointed to the strange robot behind her. "Hey, John. This is my new friend, Victor. I met him when I was, uh, collecting intel from the town."

"Howdy," the machine spoke up, its voice lively and without the usual artificial fakeness most robots had. "The name's Victor. I keep the peace in this here town."

"Uh, pleased to meet you, Victor," John stated, somewhat surprised that he was being so civil to a robot of all things. But then again, the thing was polite to him so it was only fair to return the gesture.

"Likewise," Victor remarked, his tone cool. "Now, as we are all being civil, and as I would like to keep things that way, I'm going to ask this in as nice a way as I can."

The robot's arms moved swiftly, swiveling up until they were level with the four of them. The four finger-like prongs at the each end folded back, revealing the open barrels of two vicious looking guns. "I'm gonna need you folks to disarm yourselves. No funny business, now."

"Victor!" Bittercup gasped. "What the hell?"

"Bittercup," John said slowly and softly, trying his best not to sound royally pissed even though he was. "What have you been telling the nice law enforcement robot?"

"N-nothing," the girl answered, backing herself until she was standing well away from the now fierce looking machine.

"I know you varmints are with those Brotherhood o' Steel fellas," Victor said.

"Oh, I told him that," Bittercup added.

"And that you're from a group of them back east."

"That, too."

"And that you're lookin' to make contact with the Mojave chapter."

"Yeah, and that."

"Bittercup!" John hissed. How dumb could this girl be?

"As the duly appointed Sheriff of the Community of Goodsprings, I hereby place you four under arrest."

The spectacle was bringing many of the townspeople out of their homes, all of them curious as to what was occurring. Even the folks in the saloon realized something was up, as a small crowd of onlookers began forming on the front porch, with more coming out of the entrance.

"Victor, knock it off!" Bittercup shouted. "This is so NOT cool!"

"Sorry, sweet pea," the robot said, his tone unwavering. "But I got a job to do, and part of it includes arresting wanted outlaws like you."

"Dammit, you stupid robot!" Trudy had managed to push through the crowd of gawkers standing outside her saloon and stomped over. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Just my job, mayor," Victor replied, his guns still on the four strangers. "These folks are with the Brotherhood of Steel, you know them. The same varmints who attacked Helios One and blew up the Eastern Pumping Station four months back."

"Bullshit!" Trudy screamed. "These four aren't with the Brotherhood, you moron! They're just drifters passing through on their way to California. You know, like the hundreds of other people who pass through here every month?"

"Well then, if that's the case then these fine folks won't mind surrenderin' their arms and staying a while till we sort out the confusion." Although Victor's words were fair, there was something about the way he said it that made John very much doubt its validity. Could robots even lie?

It didn't matter. There was no way he could allow himself and his men to put themselves into the custody of this unknown machine. For all they knew whoever controlled the robot was the one who blew up the Mojave Chapter's base in Hidden Valley.

John looked over to Cody and Horner, meeting their eyes and giving a slight nod. The two Paladins returned the gesture, their bodies tensing as they readied for action.

"Okay, fair enough," Trudy turned towards John, her face looking extremely irritated. "Look, just humor the bucket of bolts, alright? It shouldn't take too long to-"

John didn't give the mayor a chance to finish as he suddenly fell into a firing stance, his arms steadying his laser rifle as he fired. Red beams of death erupted from his weapon, searing the air as they splattered against Victor's metal hide. Paladins Cody and Horner did the same, unleashing a tidal wave of plasma fire from their own weapons.

"Shit!" Trudy screamed as she threw herself away from the frackas. People shouted in alarm and took cover as well, many dashing back into their homes and locking the doors.

Victor quickly reversed, his single tire churning up dust as he attempted to put some distance between himself and the energy weapons trained on him. Thankfully for the robot his armor was thick, though the blasts of laser and plasma had seared a hole through his left arm. It dangled uselessly at his side, the auto repair systems working madly in order to get it back online. Victor raised his remaining arm and let loose a volley from his chain gun, peppering the air with hot lead.

The Paladins quickly ducked out of the way, taking cover behind some old cars and other debris on the road. John gasped in pain when he felt a round hit him in the left arm. There was a throbbing agony as well as the wet warmth of blood leaking out of the wound, and he tried his best to ignore the unpleasant sensations. As he pressed his back against the rusted remains of an old truck, the Star Paladin quickly realized how dependent he had become on his power armor. It had been years since he was in a fight without one. At the moment he wore nothing but some combat armor with his old Regulator duster thrown over it. The gear provided moderate protection, but nothing like his Hellfire power armor. He could tell that his men were equally unprepared for unarmored combat as well; they had to do something and fast if they were to survive this encounter.

Cody and Horner continued to blast away at Victor while John injected himself with a stimpack. The robot returned fire, littering the area with bullets.

"Sh-should we help them?" One prospector asked as he hid behind a stack of Sunset Sarsaparilla boxes.

"Well, which one do we help?" Chet, the general store owner, asked. "I for one say we stay out of it. If we help those strangers, House will most definitely come down hard on us."

"Why did I know you were gonna say that?" Trudy asked as she crawled over. Sunny grabbed her hand and dragged her the rest of the way into the cover behind the saloon.

"Trudy, you know as well as I do that House is only leaving us alone because we helped out his little girlfriend," Chet sneered. "If we save those idiots, you can bet your life that House's gratitude is not gonna last!"

A sudden explosion rocked the air, causing many of the onlookers to scream in panic. Victor had started using his heavy weaponry, unleashing grenade rounds at the hidden Paladins. The three men retaliated by unleashing more fire from their energy rifles, peppering the robot with beams and plasma.

"Alright, you mangy yella bushwackers! You asked for it!" Victor's shoulder armor suddenly popped open, from which erupted a cloud of missiles. The projectiles rushed through the air, smoke trails burning behind them, before locking onto Cody who had taken cover behind a wrecked car. The missiles hit, causing a massive explosion which sent both the car and the Paladin flying twenty feet into the air. The flaming remains of the car smashed into the street while what was left of Cody pelted the nearby rooftops.

"Damn," Sunny said, in shock at the destruction she was witnessing. "If this keeps going on, there won't be much of a Goodsprings left."

John was in equal shock, his teeth clenching as he watched Cody's cooked pieces rain down around him. He looked back at the battle and saw Horner screaming profanities at the robot that had just killed his friend and comrade. The young Paladin leaped out of cover, aiming his plasma rifle down at Victor as he continued to blast away.

"Why won't this goddamn thing die?" Horner shouted just as his rifle clicked empty.

John looked back over to the robot, who despite all the punishment it had received was still standing strong. Remarkabley, its left hand seemed to be functional again as it leveled itself towards Horner and fired. Intermittent red beams shot forth from the gattling laser, bathing the area in scarlet light. Horner was caught in the maelstrom as several beams seared through his chest. The Paladin screamed as he fell backwards, collapsing directly in front of Bittercup who had taken cover nearby. She was huddled up with hands over her head, frozen in terror at what was obviously her first major battle since the super mutants attempted to destroy Big Town. She looked down at Horner's body in horror, tears leaking from her eyes.

"You gonna come quietly now?" Victor asked smugly.

"Not on your life, robot," John hissed in hate. He reached into his satchel and pulled out what looked like a tin can with various bits of wiring poking out of it. Upon its side were the words "DANGER" and "RADIATION" written in felt-tip marker.

The Star Paladin peeked out from under the ruined truck and saw Victor rolling towards Horner's body. The young Paladin was still moving, though from his moans of pain it was obvious that he was gravely injured. John didn't wait, not wanting to give the robot another chance at the helpless Horner. He activated the Nuka Grenade and tossed it in an overhand motion directly at the approaching Securitron.

Victor's sensors alerted him to the approaching object, and he looked up just in time to see what looked like a tin can falling towards him. He had just enough time to wonder if one of the locals was tossing pork and beans at him when he was suddenly engulfed in bright blue flames.

* * *

The Nuka Grenade had done its job. What was left of Victor was pretty much relegated to the small crater in the road directly outside of Trudy's saloon, though a few bits and pieces of him littered a large area around it. After the radiation from the blast had dissipated, John rushed over to Horner and checked his injuries. The Paladin had numerous burns and puncture wounds from the laser fire, injuries that were too severe for even his skills at medicine to handle. He was just about to shout out for help when he heard the sounds of numerous guns being cocked.

The Star Paladin looked up and saw several Goodsprings residents, all armed and looking very angry, surrounding him and what was left of his party. Among them was Trudy and Sunny, both of whom were not looking too happy.

"My friend needs help," John said, trying not to flinch at the looks of hate being directed at him.

"Give me one good reason why I should help you?" Trudy spat. "You lied to us. Victor was right. You're with those Brotherhood assholes, aren't you?"

John sighed in frustration. "This can wait, my friend is _dying! _Please, help him!"

"And how many caravan merchants have you killed, you bastard?" One of the farmers exclaimed. "I lost a son to you fuckers, just cause he was delivering robot parts to Vegas! Did any of you god damn fucks help _him_?"

John couldn't help but flinch this time. The townspeople's hate was almost palpable; they truly did despise the Brotherhood. Good God, what did the Mojave Chapter do to these people? "I'm sorry. But we were not responsible for that." John spoke softly so as not to provoke their rage. He looked towards Trudy and met her eye. "My friends and I did lie, but not about everything. We did come from the east, Washington, D.C. to be more specific. We are from the Capital Wasteland Chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel. We don't belong to the Mojave Chapter."

"Bullshit," muttered one man.

"Doesn't matter, even if his story is true," said another. "Brotherhood's all the same, everywhere. All they care about is tech."

"No, no," John interrupted. "Our chapter's different. We protect the people, technology gathering comes second. The D.C. Brotherhood doesn't see eye-to-eye with Lost Hills, that's why we've been pretty much isolated from the rest of the Order."

"Then why are you here?" This question was from Sunny.

"We're just trying to find out what happened to the Mojave Chapter, that's all." John slowly stood up with his hands in the air.

One farmer laughed, the same one who said he had lost a son. "Ha, you wanna know what happened to your friends? They got blown to shit, by the Courier, that's what. Good riddance. Too bad she didn't get all of them; everyone in the Mojave'd be better off if every single one of you fucks was dead!"

"That's enough, Roy," Trudy said. Despite looking extremely angry, the farmer quieted himself. She then nodded to two men and ponted at Horner. "Ben, Charlie. Get that boy to Doc Mitchell's place. Hurry up."

There were grumblings from the townspeople, but no one moved to stop them as the two men lifted Horner up in their arms. They then did their best not to jostle the injured Paladin too much as they rushed towards a house on top of a small hill where the town physician most likely lived.

"As for you two," Trudy said, looking towards John and Bittercup, who was still huddled under the cover of several crates. "I want you gone. Take your things and go."

"You're letting them go?" Chet all but screamed. The farmer Roy let out a bellow of his own. In a softer tone, he whispered to Trudy, "You know what House will do to us if we let them go!"

"We don't have the facilities to keep them, Chet," the mayor shot back. "What? You wanna keep them in your store for a few days while House sends his goons to pick them up?" The general store owner backed down, looking upon the ground shamefully. "Didn't think so."

"We can't just let them go!" Roy shouted. "They're murderers! All of these power armor wearing freaks are! We let them go and they'll kill again, you can mark my words! No, no. I say we kill them both, here and now! Kill them like they killed my son!"

Trudy stepped towards the screaming man and stared him down. "We don't murder people, Roy. You know that. It's not our way."

"These bastards aren't people!" He shouted back. Tears began dripping from his eyes as he vented, though now as he shouted John could see that there was no true anger in the words anymore. Only pain. "They took my boy, Trudy! They killed him like an animal! They didn't give him a chance! Not a chance!"

"I know, Roy. I know." Trudy took the old man in her arms as he began sobbing. "Shhh."

The crowd was silent, Roy's weeping the only sound. Within a few minutes, the mob began to disperse, most heading back to their homes though some stayed nearby in case the strangers caused more trouble.

"Trudy," John spoke up, feeling as if he had to say something. "We're sorry. I'm sorry."

"Go," Trudy said. Sunny came over and took Roy from her arms, leading the still weeping man away. "Don't come back, John. None of you are welcome here. We'll take care of your friend, but once he's better we'll send him on his way."

The Paladin nodded. "Thank you. I really mean that."

"Just go."

With a final nod, John left. Bittercup stood up and quickly followed.

* * *

Meanwhile, in a shack near the outskirts of town, the one with an old world flag hanging by the door... something stirred.

Inside the messy interior, filled with scrap metal and batteries and other useless junk, stood several Securitron robots. All of them had been inactive for more than two years, kept in storage just in case they were needed. One of the still forms suddenly twitched to life, its long wait finally ending. The systems powered up, servos activating and main drives coming back on line. It was the mechanical equivalent of birth, though in this case it would probably be more apt to call it reincarnation.

The monitor on the Securitron flared to life, bathing the dark interior in its dim illumination. The screen was static for a moment, but eventually an image flickered into cold monochrome existence. The image was that of a smiling cartoon cowboy, staring happily out into the dark.

* * *

**APPENDIX**

**The Lone Wanderer**

_S.P.E.C.I.A.L.__: _ST 7, PE 9, EN 6, CH 8, IN 7, AG 7, LK 5

_TAGGED SKILLS__: _Energy Weapons, Lockpick, Explosives, Medicine

_PERKS__: _Lady Killer, Daddy's Boy, Thief, Intense Training, Child at Heart, Scoundrel, Toughness, Commando, Demolition Expert, Rad Resistance, Strong Back, Finesse, Sniper, Fast Metabolism, Law Bringer, Cyborg, Tag!, Action Boy, Infiltrator, Concentrated Fire, Hermatophage, Power Armor Training, Ant Sight, Rad Regeneration, Survival Expert.

_KARMA__: _Very Good

_FACTION__: _Brotherhood of Steel, Capital Wasteland Chapter


	7. Chapter 6: East Vs West

**Author's Note:**

I don't usually do these as I believe author's notes distract from the flow of the story, but since so many readers expressed their frustrations due to the last chapter I felt that I should address the complaints presented. Firstly, I am focusing the actions of this story to fall more along the lines of the dramatic instead of relying on gameplay mechanics. In Fallout 3 and New Vegas, you could pump five or six shotgun blasts into an NPC's unarmored face and he still wouldn't go down. As all of us can agree, this is extremely unrealistic. Therego I chose to go the more "realistic" route and show injuries as they should be. If you are shot in the arm, you will feel it. If you are shot in the face with a shotgun at point blank range, you will most definitely die. Gameplay mechanics are fun when you are playing a video game, but not so much when you're telling a story. The only reason I included the stats and perk lists for the Courier and Lone Wanderer was so that people could get a basic gist of what these guys are capable of. I did not chose perks like "Almost Perfect" for obvious reasons. Overpowered heroes are boring; just read the later Ender novels or watch the Matrix Reloaded to see what I'm talking about. It all goes to gameplay vs. storytelling again; although it's fun as hell to play an invincible badass in a game, it's a bit irritating to read through a story where the main character is one-shot killing everyone and making no mistakes.

Many readers also felt that I made Victor too overpowered. Well, in a gameplay sense, I did. In the game they really weren't very effective enemies. Regardless, I have a reason for doing so. Everyone here would probably agree that in New Vegas and Fallout 3 the developers made power armor way too weak. I feel the same. Therego in this story power armor will be as it was meant to be in the lore: wear it and you're basically a walking tank. As with power armor, I think the Securitrons were also handed the short end of the stick. It was obvious that they were major badasses from the way NPCs in the game kept talking about them. The NCR restrained themselves from taking over the Strip while the Legion was around because they knew the Securitrons would be trouble, and that was before the upgrade was implemented. After the MK II OS was installed, Mr. House had no trouble kicking all the NCR forces out of the Mojave. The developers made power armor and Securitrons weak in-game because of balance issues, which makes sense since you don't want players to be frustrated after getting slaughtered by Securitrons and Paladins. If you read through the lore though, this is not the case. The two technologies are completely tough as nails, and made the Brotherhood and Mr. House forces to be reckoned with.

So, in the end, it all boils down to storytelling vs. gameplay. I think you guys can see which school I'm siding with. This is a story, so I'm tossing the gameplay mechanics out the window. If you can't get past this, then I'm afraid that you will definitely find this story frustrating and should probably not continue reading. For those of you who can, then please continue reading.

* * *

**Chapter Six: East Vs. West**

Knight Sergeant Morras was worried. Ever since Star Paladin Black radioed in yesterday with his bad news, the camp at Hidden Valley was awash in rumor and speculation. The death of Paladin Cody was a blow to all of them; the young man was one of the up-and-comers in the Brotherhood ranks, joining at fifteen and making Paladin at nineteen. He had been one of the youngest people to reach that rank in the D.C. chapter's history, second only to Sarah Lyons. It was sad indeed to know that his life had ended in such a way.

In response to the danger John warned him about, Morras had put the camp on high alert. He also radioed Cutter, head of the second patrol that had journeyed eastwards in order to investigate a settlement with a large fake dinosaur. Paladin Cutter had been shocked to hear about the attack on John since his own party's journey had been quite peaceful. He told Morras that his group would head back to Hidden Valley ASAP, a fact that Lang would probably not appreciate. The Senior Scribe and her apprentice had gone along with Cutter as she wanted to take a quick look at an old Repconn facility near the settlement. Such plans would have to be postponed (if not put off entirely) due to Cody's death.

Now, with the desert sun high overhead, Morras had a new problem. His scouts reported a large contingent of robots headed their way, and from the descriptions the scouts provided these robots matched the configuration of the one that had attacked Star Paladin Black's team. Another troubling detail was the robots' approach: the scouts reported that they were rolling down Highway 93, which all but cut off the Cutter group's approach from the east.

The camp went into a frenzy, with all Knights arming themselves and making sure to set up adequate defenses. Laser sentries were set up around the Vertibird and the six Mr. Gutsy robots were fully loaded with ammunition. Even the two pilots were on high alert, prepping the Vertibird's engines just in case the entire expeditionary team needed to retreat.

Knight Sergeant Morras hoped that it wouldn't come to that. In his mind, whoever these robots were, they had a lot to answer for. Not only for the death of Paladin Cody, but perhaps for the destruction of the Mojave chapter as well.

No, he wouldn't run. Not if he could help it.

Morras' hand tensed upon the trigger of his gattling laser as he awaited the enemy's arrival. Whoever these miserable machines were, along with whomever they worked for, they would feel the wrath of the Brotherhood.

* * *

"Well, there's not as much of them as I thought there'd be," the Courier remarked as she counted less than twenty armored figures through her binoculars. The young woman was laying upon her belly like a snake along the edge of a cliff overlooking Hidden Valley. When she first arrived there, she had been expecting an entire army of Brotherhood Paladins to be waiting for her. Instead, there were only a paltry handful. It was definitely disappointing.

Expecting a fight, the Courier had brought along the Securitron Model 2's, fresh off the assembly lines from the factories of the Big Empty. Each of the Model Twos were brand new, so they needed a thorough testing to see how their systems held up in a real life-or-death confrontation. A great way to do so was to put the new robots up against a contingent of heavily armed Brotherhood of Steel Paladins. Such a victory would have been wonderful news to greet Mr. House with; he would have been extremely pleased to learn how his new Securitron models had annihalated an entire brigade of the power armored soldiers. And of course, House would have been extremely proud of his protege's diligence at supervising the entire affair, dispensing those rare parcels of praise that she so eagerly lapped up, like a cat at a saucer of creme.

Unfortunately it looked like the Courier wouldn't get her desired pat on the head, since such a paltry force wouldn't really do for a true test.

One thing somewhat troubled her, though. A few of these new Brotherhood troops were wearing power armor that she had never seen before. The suits looked eerily similar to the armor Arcade Gannon's Enclave Remnants wore, but much more advanced and fearsome looking. At first she had been afraid that her initial guess was mistaken, and that she was in fact facing off against a re-emergent Enclave force. But then she saw the blue Brotherhood of Steel insignias painted upon the strange armors' left shoulders and realized that this chapter merely wore a more advanced model armor than that of the Mojave Brotherhood.

"That's a nice little plane, though," she muttered as she focused her binoculars' sights on the strange propeller-driven vehicle that was parked in the center of the encampment. It was large, almost as big as the Boomer's aerial bomber, its steel skin the color of dark gunmetal. The Courier grinned, imagining all sorts of possibilities. If she could get her hands on that baby, then who knew what Mr. House could accomplish? It would make a nice gift for her beloved employer, something to make up for the failure in the Model 2's testing.

"I've seen enough," she said over her shoulder. Ed-E clicked from where it floated low overhead. "Let's get down there." A grim smile twisted her lips. "I want to say hello to our new friends."

The Courier began to slowly crawl back down towards the path hidden behind the nearby ravine. Upon the path, her army of fifty Securitrons lay waiting.

* * *

It was a tense situation at the Hidden Valley camp, as the twelve remaining souls in the Brotherhood expeditionary force watched the large dust cloud slowly rising into the air. The plume was massive, created by sand and sediment churned up from the tires of the approaching robot army.

And what an army it was.

Morras counted fifty of the things steadily approaching their position, and to his eternal irritation the machines did not seem to be in any hurry to get there. _It's so nice to be taken so seriously_, he thought bitterly as he watched the long lines of the large wheeled, boxy forms slowly roll towards them. He adjusted his helmet's viewer, focusing the electronic field of vision to zoom in on the approaching sight. The majority of the robots looked to be old and well worn, with decades of rust marring their armored shells. A few of the machines, though, looked a bit newer, with shiny blue paint jobs and chrome detailing upon their exteriors. Their shoulder housings and view screens were slightly smaller than their older counterparts, thus making them look somewhat sleeker. Despite the differences, all the machines still projected an air of menace about them. The monitors on their chasis showed the faces of cartoon Pre-War soldiers glaring outwards, each gruffly chomping down on their fat cigars. These images, coupled with what was obviously a slew of weaponry housed in their arms and shoulder mounts, caused the Knight Sergeant to have a slight tingle of dread trickling down his back.

"There's so many of them," one of the younger Initiates spoke up. Morras identified her as Sasha, one of his less than stellar recruits. Although the girl was hard-working and always followed orders, she was always getting into trouble with that idiot Bittercup. He, for the life of him, could not figure out why Sasha continued to hang around the lazy, inept, and moronic Initiate. She would have had a bright future in the Brotherhood and well on her way towards Knighthood if only she stayed away from that troublemaking twit.

"We don't stand a chance," the girl mumbled. It was obvious that she was only muttering to herself in worry, but her helmet's speakers amplified the words so that all the others could hear them.

"Shut it, Initiate!" snarled Morras. He saw the girl's shoulders tense from behind the T-45d's pauldrons. "Only dead men have the attitude you're displaying! And I don't allow dead men to serve in my unit! Do you hear me, Initiate?"

"Y-yes, Knight Sergeant!" Sasha squeaked. "Sorry, Knight Sergeant!" She clutched at her laser rifle a bit tighter and aimed it down field, making sure to keep the approaching machines in her sights. If there was one thing that scared her more than an army of killer robots, it was an angry Knight Sergeant Morras.

"Remember your robot battle training," Morras said through the radio in his helmet, which allowed him to communicate to all forces within range. "Aim for the joints, they're the weakest area. Also, don't bother trying for the wheel or monitor screen. I know they look like tempting targets, but the designers of those damn things probably thought so, too. Those spots are likely armored to hell, so don't waste your shots on them. Aim for the joints, or if you can, get 'em in the weapon barrels. Sight down the muzzle flash or emitter glow."

"Sergeant!" One of his Knights spoke up, drawing Morras's attention away from his lecture. "They've stopped."

Looking back out into the field, the Knight Sergeant saw that the large assembly of robots had ceased their advance. The machines stood still like immovable statues, arrayed in an almost perfectly straight line some fifty meters from his own force's position.

The Brotherhood had set up a defensive line around the vertibird, erecting durasteel barriers around the large vehicle. This was pretty much their full defense, along with the two laser turrets and the handful of Mr. Gutsy robots. Compared to the massive robotic force allayed against them, the Brotherhood force looked to be totally outmatched.

There was a loud blare of static coming from the robot side, followed by an amplified cough.

"_Testing, testing,_" a female voice rang out, blaring from one of the robot's speakers. Morras focused his helmet's optics towards the sound and saw a young brown-haired woman in a black suit among the large machines. She stood fearlessly next to one of the mono-wheeled robots and was speaking into a microphone it was holding. Even more curious, what looked to be an Enclave eyebot was floating right next to her.

"That the hell?" The Knight Sergeant muttered, utterly perplexed.

"_Attention, Brotherhood of Steel," _the woman's amplified voice continued._ "You are trespassing upon the property of Robert Edwin House, Chief Executive Officer of the Free Economic Zone of New Vegas. You are hereby ordered to put down your weapons and surrender in a peaceful manner. Refusal to comply with my request will result in very bad things happening to you." _Morras saw the woman's lips twist up into a demented smile. _"Okay, let's just cut the bullshit and get right to it, shall we? I think everyone here knows that you people don't stand a chance. You are outnumbered and outgunned. If you want my advice, do yourselves a favor and comply. I've killed a shitload of you fuckers already, as you all have probably found out by now. So unless you wanna join your buddies, whose corpses are still interned fifty feet below us by the way, then you WILL put down your guns and surrender. _

_"I'll be nice and give you thirty minutes to think it over._" With that, the amplified voice cut off and she moved back behind the robot line.

Morras grunted, his face under the helmet sneering at the woman across the field from him. "Thirty minutes?" He all but snarled aloud. "We don't need God damn thirty minutes to decide." He turned away from the enemy army and addressed Paladin Haskell behind him. "Haskell, why don't you show the lady what our answer is?"

The big, muscular Paladin laughed, then hefted his massive weapon onto his shoulder. Most people would have found the task a bit difficult, but for a man of Haskell's size firing off the Fat Man was like tossing a football around. He could do it all day.

"Fire in the hole!" Haskell shouted before pulling the trigger. There was a loud thump, then a whoosh of warm air as the Mini Nuke was launched into the sky and towards the large line of robots in front of them.

* * *

"Incoming!" One of the Securitrons warned just before a massive explosion sent dust, sand and bent metal flying everywhere.

"Shit!" the Courier cursed as she tossed herself onto the sand. A wave of searing heat poured across her back as twenty feet away from her position four Securitrons became reduced to bent metal and cinders. Six more had serious damage, and rolled away from the newly formed crater so that their auto-repair systems could kick in. Her Pip-boy's radiation detector began to tick wildly as she looked up, spotting a small mushroom-shaped cloud forming overhead. "Motherfuckers!" she shouted, pulling herself up to her knees. She wiped at eyes stinging with dust, causing her glasses to fall from her face. "Fucking motherfuckers! Kill the bastards!" She shouted. "Kill 'em all!"

Both sides began firing. Laser beams and plasma bolts seared through the air, as did bullets and projectiles of every make and caliber. Unlike the Mojave chapter, the D.C. Brotherhood did not limit themselves to just energy weapons. Since the majority of their forces were recruits from the Wasteland, many in their ranks felt more comfortable using projectile weaponry. Thus they had a wider arsenal of tools in the Citadel's armory than perhaps any other Brotherhood chapter, a fact that aided them this day.

Although the small arms and energy weapons did minimal damage to the Securitrons, the stronger firepower from the Brotherhood's heavier weaponry began punching holes into the robots' offensive line. The missle launchers, miniguns, gattling lasers, and Haskell's Fat Man smashed apart the robots, destroying or damaging them enough that their self-repair systems could not keep up. The large Paladin laughed maniacally, his deep, booming voice almost silent in the chaotic roar of numerous weapons fire.

There was a loud pop, followed by an explosion as one of the Mr. Gutsy robots went down. It cursed at imaginary communist forces before the lights on its optical sensors dimmed and went offline. Several seconds later, three more went down as the Securitrons began firing a barrage of missiles at the Brotherhood defenses.

Morras took cover behind a barrier when the rain of missiles hit, his helmet sensors flickering wildly as sand and debris clouded the air around him. A large detonation went off nearby, and he guessed by the sound that one of the laser turrets had just gone down.

"What the hell are those things?" he heard one of his men shout through the din of explosions and gunfire. There were several other gasps of surprise, and curiously all fire from the robots ceased.

The Knight Commander took a peek over the barrier and felt a chill go down his spine. From the smoke and dust clouds rising from the flaming battlefield, _ghosts _began to appear. Each apparition stood perhaps six feet tall and was dressed in Pre-War military gear. They wore the uniforms and combat armor of the old United States Army, though this detail was somewhat difficult to tell since the ghosts glowed an eerie blue. Their forms were also somewhat translucent, as he could see the dust particles blowing from behind them.

The firing from the Brotherhood line stopped as the Knights stood in awe at the approaching ethereal figures. There were mutters of fear and terror sounding through the radio, as some of the more superstitious and religious Knights all but fell to their knees. Morras counted about twenty of the ghosts walk out from the smoke and approach them. The glowing figures were about twenty meters away when they suddenly stopped.

"What the fuck?" Haskell spoke up as he stepped forward towards the strange new arrivals. "Are they projections? Holograms maybe?"

"Paladin, what are you doing!" Morras shouted, but it was too late.

All of the sudden, the ghosts flared up, their color changing from the eerie blue to a malevolent red. The ethereal soldiers raised their arms over their heads and soon bright bolts of sizzling energy erupted from their ghostly forms. Haskell was hit first, as three of the scarlet beams smashed into his armor's chestplate. The large Paladin grunted and began lifting his Fat Man to fire back, but the ghosts were already on him. A dozen more of the red apparitions concentrated their fire directly at him, and soon the deadly energy rays burned through his armor to cook the flesh beneath. His large form crumpled to the ground, his armor belching out smoke.

"Damn it!" Morras stood away from cover and began blasting the ghosts with his gattling laser. He shot beam after beam of deadly focused light towards the red forms, seemingly to no effect. The other Knights began firing their weapons as well, unloading on the new arrivals with everything they had. Bullets of every caliber, along with laser beams, plasma bolts, missiles and grenades all flew towards their frightening new foes. But whatever the Brotherhood threw at them, the ghosts did not even feel it. The demonic entities just stood there and continued firing, sending blast after blast of red lightning towards them. Morras himself was hit several times and soon had to duck down behind the durasteel barrier as his armor became too damaged. All around him were the sounds of screaming and explosions, and he saw two of his Knights go down along with the remaining Mr. Gutsy robots.

"Knight Sergeant!" A voice flared up in Morras' ear, coming from his helmet's radio. It was Otis Butler, one of the pilots. "Knight Sergeant! The bird is ready to take off! Sound the retreat and we can be airborne in thirty seconds!"

"No! We are not finished yet!" Morras shouted into his mic. He then quickly pushed himself up, peeking his head over the barrier. He saw that the red monsters were still there, blasting at anything that moved, and now that the smoke had cleared he also saw the robot army staying back, remaining completely still and not firing at them at all. The smaller, newer looking ones were on the front lines while the older models stayed behind them.

"The robots!" the Knight Sergeant yelled. "The robots are controlling those things! Shoot the damn robots!" With those words, Morras hauled his rather battered gattling laser from the sand where he had dropped it and began to direct laserfire down field towards the robotic force.

The other Knights and Paladins quickly followed his lead, ignoring the attacking ghosts and shooting at the robots behind them. One lucky Knight managed to hit one of the newer model robots with a grenade round, blowing a wide hole right into its monitor screen. The robot exploded, its remains clattering noisily down upon the sand. As soon as it did so, two of the red ghosts disappeared.

"That's it," shouted Morras, "keep that fire up!"

The Knights did so, continuing to fire upon the robots and managing to down another one. With its demise, two more of the ghosts vanished. It was then that the other robots began moving, the older models rolling forwards to protect the newer ones. The firefight quickly intensified as the machines returned fire, shooting minigun rounds, lasers, grenades and missile volleys towards the Brotherhood. Fire and explosions rocked the sands as Paladin bled and machine sparked. Fragments of metal and bone littered the already battered features of Hidden Valley, while the silent red ghosts continued their assault. Their ethereal numbers quickly dwindled though as one by one the robots powering them were turned to scrap.

On the other side of the line, the Courier cursed. She, along with Ed-E, had ducked behind a large outcropping of rocks to watch the battle unfold. She had been directing orders to the Securitrons via Ed-E's built-in transmitter, but her instructions did not seem to be doing much good. Despite the Securitrons' numbers and superior firepower, the small contingent of Paladins seemed to be holding their own. They were obviously a battle-hardened force and had the advantage of being in an entrenched position. Combine this with the fact that the Courier, regardless of her numerous talents, had little practical military experience herself. The closest she had ever come to fighting in a large-scale battle was during the Second Battle of Hoover Dam, and during that fight she wasn't the one in charge. She had merely been following Mr. House's plan, and in the end his genius shone through when his stratagem payed off and both the Legion and the NCR forces were kicked out of his city.

Now, as she watched her precious Securitrons fall one by one, she felt the desperate need to call her employer. She wanted to hear his voice tell her it was all going to be alright, that he had a plan which would turn the tide of battle and bring them victory. His plans were always brilliant, often shocking her at the simplicity and elegance within the details. Mr. House had once asked her to play a game of chess with him, but she politely declined; she had been deathly afraid that he would beat her too easily and thus reveal how truly idiotic she was, or worse, that she would win the match through some thoroughly random fluke and make him look bad.

But no, she would not call him. This was _her_ plan, after all. This was the first time in House's employ that she had taken the initiative without consulting him first. She wanted to show her beloved employer that she could be, if not as smart as him, then a distant but acceptable second. She wanted him to know that his right hand wasn't just muscle; she was someone he could rely on completely, someone who deserved to be by his side.

"I will not be humiliated like this!" She hissed towards the battle. Her Securitrons continued their relentless assault, though their numbers had dwindled drastically. The Brotherhood continued their struggle to survive, blasting away, slowly but surely, at the once-mighty wall of robots. There were now only six hologram soldiers left as only three of the Model 2's remained operable.

"Ed-E!" the Courier turned to the floating eyebot. "Give me Euclid! Now!"

The robot clicked in an affirmative before a port at its side armor popped open. The Courier reached in and pulled out a surprisingly heavy looking toy ray gun, its green plastic shell marred by years of dirt and scratches. Its innocent appearance belayed what a truly dangerous item it was.

She turned back to the battlefield with the toy in hand, directing a set of angry amber eyes towards the Brotherhood of Steel force. "The House always wins, boys," she sneered as she hefted the toy, aiming it at the center of the camp. "Time to wipe you fuckers out. This place'll be your grave, just like with Veronica's pals." The Courier grinned, then pulled and held the trigger, causing a laser beam to paint an orange bead against the dark hull of the vertibird. With all the explosions and death going on around them, none of the Knights noticed.

There was a loud, harsh burst of electronic noise as Euclid's Rangefinder transmitted the coordinates of the Brotherhood camp to one of the Archimedes II system's satellites in geo-synchronous orbit around the earth. Seconds ticked by, and once transmission was done three large orange beams of light fell to the earth, piercing through the clouds as they flashed brightly against the sand. Several Knights shouted in warning as they saw the three large beams moving, and only the Courier from her vantage point saw that the three shafts of light were twisting around, triangulating their position before converging, ready to release blinding death down upon them.

Soon the beams met, forming into one large shaft of light directly above the Vertibird. Morras screamed into his mic, warning everyone to take cover. He really had no idea what the strange lights were or what was about to happen, but his instincts during battle were sharp, and right now those instincts were screaming at him to _get the fuck down._

It was a few seconds later that death claimed the Brotherhood, as a massive column of searing blue light fell upon them from the heavens.

* * *

"What the hell was that?" Bittercup screamed as she looked away from the bright pillar of energy that had flared up in the sky. She opened and shut her eyes several times, trying to blink the afterimage formed out of her sight.

John grit his teeth as a cold feeling of dread sunk into him. He and Bittercup had been traveling through the rugged terrain of the Mojave, taking the back paths through dangerous, radscorpion infested territory in order to avoid the main roads. Robots, of the same model that had attacked them in Goodsprings, had suddenly appeared everywhere and were patrolling the main thoroughfares. This left them no choice but to cut across the desert on the way back to Hidden Valley to rejoin the rest of the expedition.

The day of trekking through the Mojave was not as easy as their earlier trip down the Long 15. He and Bittercup had been attacked several times already, once by a giant radscorpion and thrice by groups of strange lizard-like creatures that ran on two legs. Needless to say it wasn't a very restful trip, and he had been looking forwards to getting back to camp.

But then the column of light appeared, striking down from the heavens like the fabled hammer of Thor. It was brighter than anything John had ever seen before, and even outshone the sun for a few seconds. When it struck down they felt more than heard a gigantic explosion. The massive wall of sound slammed into their senses, rattling the teeth in their skulls.

But what shocked John the most was where the light had touched down. It had appeared right in front of them in the direction they were heading. From what he could see, it struck right at the base of Black Mountain, straight into the heart of Hidden Valley.

"John," Bittercup spoke up, her demeanor uncharacteristically serious. "You... you don't think something bad happened, do you? To our friends, I mean?"

The Star Paladin looked towards the direction of Hidden Valley, where his sharp eyes spotted a large cloud of black smoke beginning to rise into the hot desert air.

"I'm sure they're fine," he lied. "Let's go."

Bittercup had no choice but to follow him as he trudged forwards, towards the direction of the mysterious light.

* * *

**APPENDIX**

**PDQ-88b Model 2: **A modified version of the Robco security model 2060. This model has had their shoulder-mounted M-235 missile launchers removed in order to house two tactical hologram emitters. Their backside armor is also thinner so that an enlarged reactor could be installed, one robust enough to provide the power necessary for the two emitters. This makes the Model 2's somewhat more vulnerable than their older model counterparts, but the addition of the tactical holograms' increased offensive capabilities more than makes up for any defensive deficiency. Regardless, the Model 2's are still escorted by Model 1's during missions in order to maximize efficiency.

The Model 2 came about when the Courier, during a forray into the legendary Sierra Madre casino, found tactical hologram technology within its poisoned, ghost-infested depths. After escaping from the Sierra Madre, the Courier returned a month later with a full force of one thousand Securitrons and took the casino by force. Her robotic army slaughtered hundreds of Ghost People before managing to break into the casino itself, but the toxic red cloud proved a hindrance even to the mighty Securitrons. The robots began to wear away in the noxious fumes, the cloud corroding the rubber in between their joints before eating into the interior circuitry. More than half of the Courier's Securitrons suffered catastrophic system failure before she left with as much research data as she could scrounge up; this data included numerous files from the deranged Father Elijah as well as several working hologram emitters. Although there were other valuable treasures within the Sierra Madre's depths, staying to secure them all would have proven much too difficult as she not only had the red cloud to contend with but a seemingly endless stream of Ghost People as well. After leaving the Sierra Madre, the Courier destroyed the casino through unknown means.

Although initially skeptical with the Courier's discovery, Mr. House soon saw the potential for the hologram technology. He began implementing hologram vendors and dealers in his casinos, as well as using security holograms to bolster the Lucky 38's security systems. It wasn't until a year later, when the Courier secured the Big MT research facility, that plans for the construction of the Model 2 Securitron took place. The Courier had become enamored with the idea of a mobile platform for tactical hologram technology. The greatest weakness of holograms, she reasoned, was their limited range from their emitters. But if you made the emitter itself mobile, then theoretically the holograms' range would be infinite. Thus, she designed and planned out the first of the Model 2's construction, with some limited supervision from Mr. House.

The first batch of Model 2 PDQ-88b Securitrons were field tested against a small squad of Brotherhood of Steel Paladins at Hidden Valley. Results from the test remain inconclusive.


	8. Chapter 7: Sloan and The Murder of Doc M

**Chapter Seven: Sloan and The Murder of Doc Mitchell**

It had been three long days since the strange pillar of light appeared in the sky. John and Bittercup had raced towards Hidden Valley in order to get back to camp and ascertain just what exactly happened, but unfortunately they were unable to enter as all paths through the mountains were blocked off. Squads composed of the strange, mono-wheeled robots that were hunting them could be found at every intersection, allowing for no possible approach into the valley. John had attempted to contact the camp by radio, but all that came through the line was dead air. He then tried to call on Cutter's group, which had headed westwards on similar fact-finding mission, but this attempt met similar luck in reaching them. Only static answered his queries.

With no other leads or ideas, John took the unusually stoic Bittercup to the nearest settlement where they could resupply and take stock of their options. That settlement happened to be the large mining town of Sloan. Currently, John wondered if it had been such a wise decision to do so.

Sloan, from what he could gather from the locals, used to be a small NCR mining camp back in the days when the Republic controlled the area. Now under Mr. House's control, the small settlement grew into a massive collection of ramshackle huts and shacks that could, technically, in the loosest possible terms, be called a town. When the NCR left, House took over operations for Quarry Junction, deciding to keep it open due to the large amounts of concrete he needed to rebuild the Strip and Hoover Dam. House not only kept the miners, who were by then unemployed, but also payed them in bottle caps.

Previously, the miners had been payed with NCR dollars. This was not such a good deal for them since the exchange rate was pitiful. In order to receive goods and services in Vegas, the miners had to pay much more of their NCR currency as opposed to those who payed with bottle caps. It was no surprise that when word of the new payment structure got around, job seekers from all throughout the region flocked to Sloan for the work. Most were immigrants from California and other NCR territories who decided to move east since jobs back west were hard to come by due to the flagging economy.

Curious, John had asked some of the recent immigrants about the situation in California. A lot of what he heard wasn't good. The NCR had sunk a massive fortune into trying to secure the Mojave Wasteland and the rich resources within it. Troops and material allocation for the region was massive, as they not only had to secure Vegas from the Strip families, but local raiders and other riff-raff as well. What was promised by politicians to be a quick conquest turned into a giant, complicated mess however, when the NCR found itself facing off against the fearsome might of a powerful slaver nation from Arizona called Caesar's Legion.

As harrowing as this new enemy was though, the Legion wasn't the only headache they had to face in Vegas; numerous hostile tribals and raider groups also operated in the region, not to mention the entire fiasco with their prison facility, an event that ended up releasing several hundred dangerous inmates into the desert. Then there was the shadow from the Strip, with Mr. House and his dangerous right hand slowly working in secret to undermine all that the NCR had accomplished in Vegas. The NCR troops, even as massive in number as they were, could simply not cope with all the challenges allaying them. Stretched thin and without support due mostly to bureaucratic red tape from back west, it would have taken a miracle for the NCR to achieve victory. And when House finally played his hand, when the seemingly endless waves of incredibly powerful robots streamed out from the underground bunker of Fortification Hill, it was time for the Republic to cash out.

The former President Kimball had bet all his chips on acquiring Vegas, but unfortunately for him his luck didn't pan out. Like most tourists who came to the Strip, he went home empty-handed. The events after the Second Battle of Hoover Dam had left the New California Republic with giant black eye, tarnishing the nation's once invincible image. The common citizens of the NCR had become aghast, unable to comprehend how their mighty nation's army, the most powerful on the entire continent, could have been so easily thwarted by what many saw as a tiny, insignificant tourist attraction in the middle of the desert. They blamed Kimball's administration for ineptness, putting the blame upon them (warranted or not) for the thousands of soldiers whom had lost their lives, not to mention the millions of dollars wasted in what turned out to be a foolish endeavor. But the biggest insult of all was that the people of California were still _paying_ the so-called Ghost Man of Vegas for the water and power they were receiving from Hoover Dam. The citizenry of the NCR were up in arms, and like any true democracy, they showed their anger through their votes.

President Kimball was soundly thrashed in the next election. Voters chose Katherine Lamb, a senior representative from Angel's Boneyard, to succeed him. A staunch and outspoken critic of Kimball's campaign in the Mojave, Lamb ran on a platform of isolationism and protectionism. Her campaign's motto of _"California First"_ rang true with many people who thought the NCR was expanding too quickly, as well as those voters who were just plain xenophobic. Upon entering office, her first order of business was to order all troopers and rangers out of Baja, which was another contested region that Kimball's administration had been trying to secure. She then tried to cut off all trade and economic ties with New Vegas, but her attempts were met with much backlash from Congress and the private sector. Both the brahmin barons and wealthy trade caravans had much stake set in trade with the new Free Economic Zone, not to mention that the Mojave Wasteland was a central trade route into much of the eastern regions like New Canaan. If Vegas was cut-off, then the Republic's economy would suffer even worse than it was currently. Hoover Dam was also supplying about 34% of California's electricity and fresh water; it would have been disastrous if those resources were cut.

The Star Paladin made sure to write all this information down in his Pip-boy. Elder Lyons and the rest of the Alliance leadership would probably like to know the political situation of the west coast, if only to ascertain any threats that could harm their fledgling nation. Although this NCR seemed powerful and imperialist in intent, right now they seem to be having internal troubles. John was more concerned with the forces of Mr. House, as well as the armies of Caesar's Legion. House was an obvious threat, given all that his robots had been up to, but he knew too little about this Legion. He knew they were slavers, which was usually enough to get on his bad side, but aside from that they were pretty much an unknown. The fact that every Californian he'd spoken with seemed to wet their pants at the mere mention of the Legion made it obvious that he needed to learn more about them.

_Now I just have to get my ass back to D.C. to tell them,_ he thought grimly.

John made a mental tally of his current resources. After getting to Sloan, he sold his small cache of explosives, which consisted of several Nuka-grenades, bottlecap mines, some frag grenades, as well as a single plasma mine. These managed to net him roughly two thousand caps, which was a large sum now, sure, but one that wouldn't last for very long.

He also had a basic AER9 laser rifle, which was still in pretty good condition, along with the microfusion cells it used as ammunition. Usually, his main weapon was a unique laser rifle called the _Metal Blaster_, a handy energy weapon he had managed to acquire during his mission into the Pitt. John had left the rifle locked in his personal safe back on the vertibird before he left the camp to explore the Mojave. He felt having such a unique and obviously expensive weapon would not fit too well with his backstory of being a poor laborer on his way West looking for work.

The Paladin hoped that the rifle was still in one piece, along with the friends he left behind at the camp. Judging form that massive explosion he saw, though...

The last piece of equipment he had was his laser pistol. It was a unique one, just like his rifle, but this time he kept it with him, out of sight in its holster. It was called the _Smuggler's End_, and John made sure to never let it out of his sight. The gun had much sentimental value, and had been a gift from Elder Lyons in thanks for saving his daughter's life.

Some years back, he and Sarah's squad had been deep in the D.C. ruins searching for the last remaining pockets of Super Mutants. Although at the time the rest of the Capital Wasteland was free of the mutant menace, the deeper city ruins still had small communities of them here and there. They would usually only attack unwary travelers and merchant caravans that were unfortunate enough to pass nearby, but if they were hungry enough the mutants would even journey outside the D.C. ruins to harass nearby communities. The Brotherhood was tasked with eradicating these pests, and there were several such "clean-up" teams patrolling the ruins in search of the mutants. The Lyon's Pride was at the forefront of such activities, and they often went into the most dangerous areas in order to eradicate any Super Mutant enclaves they could find.

The Pride, along with the then-Paladin Black, were exploring a previously unmapped part of D.C. when the shitstorm of all shitstorms happened. Everything had been quiet, with no contact being made with anyone, either hostile or friendly, for over a week. Then, while cutting through a large track of subway line that had been partially submerged in water, the squad came upon a cadre of mutants. There were about thirty of the giant green monsters, and all of them seemed just as surprised as the Paladins were when they came upon the encampment. All hell broke loose seconds later, with both Super Mutants and Paladins opening fire on each other. In the chaos, Sarah and Knight Captain Colvin became separated from the rest of the Pride, as more and more Super Mutants came out of nowhere. They seemed to emerge from every crack and every crevice in the dark, wet tunnels, attacking with vicious ferocity that forced the remaining members of the Pride to retreat. John, not wanting to leave his friend behind, remained and fought against the waves of mutants attacking.

Somehow, through both luck and skill, he managed to beat back the tide, causing the mutants to temporarily withdraw from the area. Paladin Black rushed through the waist-deep water to where Sarah and Colvin were last seen, pushing through the numerous floating mutant carcasses in his way. Eventually he found both missing Paladins, but unfortunately the Knight Captain was dead; a large metal spike was rammed into the exposed neck joint in his power armor, all but severing the poor man's neck. Sarah was gravely injured and needed immediate medical attention. Ignoring his own injuries, John carried the Sentinel on his back and half swam, half ran for the exit. It was at that moment that the Super Mutants made their return, screaming at him and giving chase. Thankfully, the other members of Lyon's Pride had managed to regroup and made an appearance as well. They were a frightening and awful sight in their fury as they opened fire on the mutants, providing covering fire for John as he carried Sarah to safety.

Once safely away from the mutants, John stabilized Sarah's condition enough for the long trek back to Rivet City where the injured Sentinel could receive proper medical attention. She recovered eventually, but only after weeks of agonizing physical therapy.

"I heard you carried me all the way to safety on your back," Sarah told him during one of his visits during her hospitalization. She wore a small smile as she said it. "I gotta say, I'm impressed."

"You should be. You don't look it, but you're damn heavy." John teased while rotating his shoulder. He then did a few stretches and mocked a back injury. "What the hell do they feed you guys over in A Ring?"

Sarah punched him in the gut for that remark. The bruise didn't go away for over a month.

"Hey, kid!" A gruff voice brought John out of his reverie, and he found himself in the present, sitting at a stool at a bar in the middle of Sloan. It was a pretty ramshackle joint, not as nice as Trudy's saloon, nor did it have the gutter-charm of Moriarity's pub. It was pretty much just a converted shack, with room for only several people along with the furniture and booze.

It was the bartender who had gotten John's attention. He was a big, burly man of about fifty years, a former miner from the Boneyard whose hard, rough life was etched into every feature of his craggy face. "Look, kid," he stated again after seeing that he had John's full attention. "If yer done with your drink, fuck off. There are other assholes who wanna get drunk in this town, and they can use the seat."

John rolled his eyes before standing, deciding that it wasn't worth it to complain about the awful customer service. He tossed a few caps onto the bar and left, ignoring the barkeep's snarky, "Please come again!"

Outside the booze shack, the air of the Mojave was hot and dry as always. John covered his eyes for a moment as they adjusted to the searing bright glare from the sun overhead. The stench of the town also assaulted his nostrils, though thankfully he was somewhat used to it now and thus the effect was lessened. According to one of the quarry foremen, there were roughly 300 people living in Sloan now, mostly miners along with their families. Every day more and more people were coming in, and it was estimated that the population would double in just a few more months. As one could imagine, such a large number of people living in such hastily constructed habitations lead to quite the stench. The lack of a working sewage system didn't help, either. Thankfully there was an organized movement to get some basic plumbing into the town, so hopefully things would get better in time. There was also a group called the Followers of the Apocalypse here who gave out medical care (for a price) so health-wise it wasn't too bad. John had certainly seen worse.

He was walking through the maze of ramshackle tin huts and makeshift homes when a young boy rushed up to him. John recognized the lad as Jim-Tim, a local he had met a few days back when he and Bittercup first came to town. Jim-Tim was an orphan as far as he could tell, and offered to take him and his "sister" to the best spots in Sloan. Seeing that the boy wasn't too offensive as far as guttersnipes were concerned, John agreed and Jim-Tim took them to the town's cheapest motel, which was a small collection of tents near the outskirts. He payed the boy twenty caps, which judging from the delighted look on the urchin's face was quite the haul for him, and said that there'd be more for him if he'd warn John if any of the mono-wheeled robots (which he learned were called Securitrons) ever entered town.

"You got it, mister!" Jim-Tim grinned, showing off some missing front teeth. "Any o' those rusty buckets even come near Sloan, an' a'll come hollarin'!" The boy then rushed off, most likely to spend his hard earned caps.

Currently, John watched the boy rush up to him, his young face matted with sweat. "What is it, Jim-Tim?" The Star Paladin asked. Could the Securitrons have found him already?

"It-it's your sister!" the boy gasped out, obviously out of breath.

"Bittercup?" John asked, a frown worming its way to his face. What had she done now? He had strictly told her to stay in the tent they had rented. If that girl did something stupid again...

"She's in trouble!"

"Shit," John growled, irritation evident in his voice. What did she do now?

* * *

Goodsprings was just as she remembered it. Sleepy, quiet, small. Such was its charm, though, and she could not help but smile as she passed the sign welcoming visitors in. Every building, rock, and plant was still the same. In the two years since the Courier had left, nothing seems to have changed.

To her, this small town was home. Because of her missing memory, her earliest recollections were of Goodsprings. This was where her life began. She was born on Doc Mitchell's operating table; anything of who she was before, what she did, what her name was, it had all been tossed away along with the pieces of the bullet that had been lodged in her brain.

When word reached the inhabitants of her return, every person in town came ouside to gawk and wave. She was a returning hero, their own homegrown star come back from saving the world. And as far as the residents were concerned, she had done a heap of good. Everyone had listened to Mr. New Vegas' radio news reports of her exploits. They cheered her when they heard of how she and her small gang had wiped out all the convicts at the NCRF, or how she had ended the Fiend menace by going into Vault 3 and assassinating the raider gang's leader. They also celebrated the news that she kicked out both the NCR and Legion out of the region, even though most of them had never met anyone from either faction. All that mattered to them was the fact that their adopted hometown girl had made quite a name for herself, and in turn she was a shining example to the rest of the world of Goodsprings and its people.

Even though the residents seemed very glad to see her, they were less happy to see her escorts. Along with Ed-E, five Securitrons shadowed her steps. The large robots looked very imposing as they rolled along behind her. Although the Courier knew that she didn't really need the robots for protection, she liked having them around in order to remind others just who she represented.

When she and her entourage neared the Prospector Saloon, they could see evidence of recent battle. The old Pre-War street was cracked and shattered, chunks of concrete and twisted metal littered the sands. The wreckage showed signs that high explosives and laser weaponry had been used. There was also a large crater at the side of the road, from which the charred remains of a Securitron could be seen.

"Tsk tsk tsk," the Courier muttered with an amused smirk. "Very sloppy, Victor."

Said Securitron was currently rolling down the road. He waved his arm in greeting, the cartoon cowboy in his CRT viewscreen ever smiling. The Courier let out a joyful laugh and rushed up to the robot, throwing her arms around his midsection in a forceful hug.

"Well, hello to you, too, darlin!" The Securitron drawled out in amusement.

"Victor! I missed you!" She said while grinning up at him.

"Likewise," Victor said, affection evident in his artificial voice. "Anyway, sorry fer draggin' you all the way out here. But we got a situation."

The Courier nodded, then looked towards Doc Mitchell's house in the distance. "I know, I read your report. One dead, one injured currently in town, and two escaped."

"Yeah," Victor sounded a bit embarrassed. "I admit, I got sloppy there, pardner. Shoot, I must be getting old. There was a time those four varmints would never've gotten the drop on me."

"Aw, come on! You're too hard on yourself," the Courier patted the robot on its arm. "They were four highly trained Brotherhood Paladins, you were just one guy. I think you did pretty well, and so does Mr. House."

"Aw, shucks, doll, yer makin' me blush," Victor chuckled. "Anyway, thanks for comin. I was gonna arrest the delinquent myself, but you know the old Doc. He's bein' stubborn."

"Don't worry, I'll talk to him." She stepped forwards in the direction of the doctor's house, but stopped mid-step. "Oh, I almost forgot." The dark haired woman reached into her pocket and pulled out a tin star. "Here's your badge, sheriff." She smiled as she placed the metal emblem onto Victor's chest, the badge's magnet allowing it to stick to the robot's hull.

"Thanks, darlin. I feel really official now!"

The Courier clapped the robot on the back when she spotted two familiar figures approaching. She let out a bright smile when she saw Trudy and Sunny coming to greet her.

"Oh my God!" The Courier laughed as she embraced the two women, "It's so good to see you guys!"

"Holy, crap, kid," Sunny said, "you look great!"

"Yeah," Trudy agreed. When she had first met the young woman, the girl was a frail, pale mess. The Courier back then had just gotten out of surgery, and her head was shaved and covered in bandages. She was quiet and withdrawn, somewhat skittish and very easily spooked. The girl had looked incredibly young and vulnerable. Trudy's heart went out to her back instantly, and she was against letting the young woman leave when she learned that the girl was intent on searching for the men who'd tried to kill her. But even then the Courier's talent with a gun was evident, as she had helped defend the town against Joe Cobb and his Powder Gangers. Reluctantly, Trudy had let the girl go.

But now, the Courier had changed so much. Gone was the pale waif with the blank eyes who never smiled. In her place was a confident, healthy woman with sharp eyes and long, dark hair. As the three of them caught up, Trudy was amazed at how much the young woman was actually _speaking._ Before the girl almost never spoke except to answer questions or to ask questions herself. Now she was chatting and laughing like a normal person, and it made Trudy's heart leap. It looked as if Goodspring's little adopted baby had come into her own out there in the Mojave.

"Well, you're definitely doing well for yourself," Trudy said, before eyeing the Courier's robotic companions with distaste. "Can't say as I appreciate the company you keep."

The dark haired woman laughed. "Oh, come on, Trudy. They're cool. They may be robots, but they're some of the best friends I've ever had. Mr. House is a genius, and he takes very good care of me."

"Well, good," Trudy stated. "I don't really trust House and his damn rust buckets, but if you vouch for him then I guess he's not so bad."

The Courier smiled at the older woman. "Thanks, Trudy. I appreciate that." She then looked over to Doc Mitchell's house and sighed. "As nice as it was talking with you two, I'm afraid I gotta get back to work."

"You gonna arrest that injured boy?" Sunny asked. "Is it true that he's from the Brotherhood of Steel?"

"Afraid so." The Courier reached down and patted the gun holstered at her hip. Although she rarely went around openly armed, she knew that arresting people usually went smoother if they saw that she was carrying a weapon.

"That boy was pretty badly banged up," Trudy said. "I doubt you'll need the goon squad." She nodded her head to the Securitrons.

"I know," the Courier smirked. "They're just here to carry him back to Vegas."

"Well, let me come with you. You know how stubborn Doc can be," Trudy began marching up towards the house.

"Good idea," the Courier and Sunny followed. Ed-E floated behind them, along with Victor. The other Securitrons kept a discreet distance but followed as well.

Trudy stepped up onto the doctor's porch and rapped loudly on the door. A few moments later, the door opened and the worn face of Doc Mitchell popped out.

"Hello, Doc, can we talk?" Trudy asked.

The old doctor looked around, spotting both the Courier and her robot companions. He sighed sadly and nodded, before stepping out onto the porch and closing his front door behind him. The Courier noticed a 9mm pistol tucked into his belt.

"Good to see you again, Doc," the Courier smiled.

The doctor nodded and gave the girl a small pained smile in return. "Good to see you again, too. You're looking well. You haven't been shot since the last time I saw you, I hope?'

"Shot, stabbed, blown up, electrified," the Courier shrugged. "Even got my brain stolen once. Long story, don't ask," she waved her had as if such a thing was a normal, everyday occurance. "But nothing as bad as the first time you saw me."

Doc Mitchell nodded. "Good, that's good. It's nice to see that you're doing so well."

The Courier nodded, then sighed and looked up at the doctor. "You know why I'm here, don't you, Doc?"

"Yeah," Doc Mitchell grumbled. "You're here to take my patient. Well, as you very well know, that young man is severely injured. Just ask your robot friend how that happened." The old man directed a glare at Victor.

"C'mon, Doc. Ya know those desperados opened fire first," Victor stated.

"It doesn't matter!" Doc Mitchell barked out. "As long as he is my patient and under my care, I refuse to let anyone harm him, do you understand me?"

"Doc," The Courier spoke up, her voice tight. "I know how you feel, but that man is a fugitive and a terrorist. You do know who I work for, right?"

"Yes, I do." The old doctor stepped down off the porch and walked up to the Courier until they were face-to-face. "I know who you work for alright." His voice was tight and strained with anger, an emotion that seemed completely alien to anyone who knew him. "I'm from Vault 21, remember? That man tossed out my family and friends, destroyed our home, turned it into a damned hotel! Trust me, I _know_. I know full well what House is capable of."

Doc Mitchell took a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying desperately to calm himself. After a moment, he seemed more himself. Opening his eyes, he looked directly at the Courier and shook his head. "You have my answer. I will not give him to you, or to anybody else who comes looking for him. He is my patient, and as a doctor I will not let any harm come to him."

"I see," the Courier said, her voice cracking slightly.

"I'm sorry," Doc Mitchell frowned, his voice softening. "I'm a doctor, and it's my job to look after my patients. If it were you, you know, and the men who had shot you and left you for dead had come around demanding that I hand you over, then I would do the same thing. I would not let them, or anyone else, touch you."

"I know," the Courier looked up at him and smiled sadly. "And I love you for it."

A second later, before anyone could react, her gun was pressed against the old man's forehead. A half second after that, the trigger was pulled. A billionth of a second after that, the loud blare of a gunshot resounded around the small, quiet town.

Time stood still.

Trudy, eyes wide in shock and horror, fell back against the wall of Doc Mitchell's house as his front door was splattered in red.

Sunny Smiles, shouting out in disbelief, quickly reacted, pulling her rifle off her back and into her hands.

Victor and the other Securitrons swiftly covered her, raising their gun arms in Sunny's direction.

And Ed-E, reprogrammed to enjoy death and destruction, twittered happily in electronic glee.

The Courier dropped her revolver as she reached forwards, managing to catch Doc Mitchell before he fell. She held him in a twisted embrace, on hand around his waist to keep him from falling, the other resting against the mess that was the back of his head, cradling it lest his skull flop around. Calmly and tenderly, like a mother laying a child to rest, she lowered the doctor's convulsing body onto his front porch. She shushed him gently as sick gurgling sounds erupted from his throat, her hand holding his tightly until the tremors wracking his dying body stopped. Once his corpse was still and cold, she let go of his hand and reached up to his face, fingertips gently closing his eyelids.

"Oh God, oh God," Sunny gasped, horrifed at what she had seen. Someone she considered a dear friend had just murdered in cold blood one of the kindest men she had ever met. She clutched at her rifle, unable to to anything, not sure if she _wanted_ to do anything. In the back of her mind she could hear Cheyenne's fearful barks from where she had left her in Trudy's saloon, the dog obviously feeling her master's distress.

Trudy was shocked as well. Like anyone in the Wasteland, she was no stranger to death. But what she had just witnessed was so evil and twisted that she felt herself almost speechless. What the hell kind of moster had this girl become, to murder the man who had saved her life?

"What... what have you done?" Trudy finally managed to bark out. She watched as the Courier was affectionately smoothing away the blood from the hole in Doc Mitchell's forehead, like a mother bathing a baby with her gentle touch. "You... you killed him! He saved your life, and you killed him!"

"No," the Courier told her as she continued to clean the blood from the old doctor's face. Below his head, a pool of dark red expanded outwards, staining the floorboards. "He didn't save me, Doc just helped." She looked up, her hazel eyes hazy but tearless. "Mr. House was the one who saved me."

And then she smiled.

* * *

Paladin Horner waited. He had no choice.

His injuries, though no longer life threatening, were still severe enough to limit his movements. When word got around that the Courier was coming to Goodsprings, most likely to take him back to Vegas for who knows what purpose, Doctor Mitchell had assured him that he would not allow such a thing to happen. Although the Paladin knew that an old country doctor would really incapable of stopping an army of robots from coming in and taking him, he still appreciated the old man's concern. Kind and honest men like Doc Mitchell were some of the rarest things in the Wasteland, and Horner was honored to have met him.

When he heard the gunshot ring out, Horner all but leaped out of his bed. The sharp pains from his burns and recent surgeries prevented it though, and the Paladin cursed his weakness as he was forced to remain on the bed. He wanted so desperately to rip off his bandages and rush outside to help the old man. Who in their right mind would harm someone like Doc Mitchell, a man who did nothing but help and heal others?

Unable to do anything else, he waited. And fumed. He strained his ears to hear what was going on outside the doctor's house, but all he could hear were voices that were too soft to make out clearly.

"Doc!" He finally called out, though doing so caused a sharp lance of pain to flash in his chest. "Doc! Are you alright?"

A few moments later, a young woman entered the room. She was perhaps about twenty years old, with long dark brown hair tied back in a ponytail. She wore a black suit with white shirt and tie, along with black leggins and brown combat boots. Said boots were stained red with what could have only been blood. The Doc's blood.

"You bitch," Horner hissed out, fury almost overtaking him.

"Aw, are you mad?" The girl asked, her hazel eyes sharp and predatory behind the thin lenses of her glasses. She raised a strange gun at him, one that looked like a revolver but had LED lights glowing at its side. "You do realize that if you'd just gone and fucking died like you were supposed to, then Doc Mitchell would still be alive? I should fucking kill you right now. Doc Mitchell didn't deserve to die, not for _you_."

The Courier hissed in anger, pulling the gun away from him and shoving it back in its holster. "Luckily for you, my employer wants you alive. You better fucking hope that you don't piss off Mr. House, cuz if he loses interest in you, well... let's just leave that part as a surprise, shall we?"

She smirked, turning around just as two mono-wheeled robots ducked under the partition and entered the room. They rolled towards Horner, their arms held out, claws clicking menacingly.

"Welcome to Vegas," the Courier said with a laugh.

* * *

**APPENDIX**

**Free Economic Zone of New Vegas Census Report 2283**

**New Vegas Proper: **(Including zones like The Strip, Freeside, Westside, etc.) Population: 2,300*

**Goodsprings: ** Population: 42

**Sloan: **Population: 270**

**Primm: **Population: 112

**Novac: **Population: 200

**Bitter Springs: **Population: 480**

_* Does not include the hundreds of tourists from NCR and other areas._

_** Numbers are unreliable due to constant influx of new residents. This is caused by immigration from California or refugees fleeing Arizona. _


	9. Chapter 8: Legionary Blues

**Chapter Eight: Legionary Blues -Part One-**

"My life blows," Bittercup groused bitterly as she was pushed along the road by her captors.

The afternoon sun was steadily sinking towards the horizon, but the approach of dusk hardly made the air around her any less hot. From what she could tell the temperature was still well over a hundred degrees, and she was tired, sweaty, and thirsty from the long forced trek she had endured during the last six hours.

The young Brotherhood Initiate gave each of her seven captors a glare, wanting them all to know just how pissed off she currently was. The men who had kidnapped her, though, didn't pay her any mind. That is to say all of them with the exception of the youngest, a ratty looking boy who was probably only a few years younger than her. He eyed Bittercup with distinct interest, and had attempted to grope her when the group first sprung their trap. A quick and vicious punch from the leader stopped the young man's lechery though, and Bittercup was almost grateful to the guy if it weren't for the fact that he was a dirty kidnapper.

"I'm thirsty," Bittercup whined. The men just continued walking, the big brutish thug behind her pushing roughly whenever she failed to keep up with their brisk pace. "I said I'm thirsty!"

"Shut it, bitch," said the thin man dressed in a battered wool overcoat, who was walking directly in front of her. "You'll drink when we set camp."

The young woman glared at his back, part of her silently wondering how he could wear such a thick coat in this heat. "Well, when the heck are we setting camp then?"

"When the sun go down," spoke up the brute behind her.

Bittercup looked blankly up at the sky and saw that the sun was still at least three hours from setting. "But I'm thirsty _now_!"

"Girl, if you don't shut the fuck up..." The thin man pulled out a wicked looking bowie knife from his belt.

"Let her drink," the leader of the gang spoke up from the front.

"But, Boss!"

"I don't really wish to listen to her whine for a couple of more hours. Do you?" The leader glanced back over his shoulder and directed his subordinate an irritated sneer.

The man in the coat merely rolled his eyes. "Fine, fine. But I ain't sharin' _my_ water."

The boy who had earlier tried to grope Bittercup rushed up to her side, a smile on his face and a canteen in his hands. He grinned at the captive and pushed the metal jug at her, nodding for her to drink.

"Uh, thanks," the girl said, cautiously unscrewing the cap of the canteen as she watched the boy wearily. Since he didn't seem to be up to anything sinister, she tipped the water into her mouth and began drinking eagerly. After several hours of forced marching in the dreadful desert heat, the warm and slightly rust-flavored water tasted delicious.

After drinking her fill, Bittercup passed the much lighter canteen back to the rat-faced boy and gave him a small smile of thanks. The young man blushed and nodded in welcome before running off to the rear of the group.

"Satisfied, Princess?" asked another of the gang, a man dressed in a dark blue Pre-War suit that had seen better days. He had a wily mop of white hair and thick Nuka-Cola bottle glasses, features that made him look wily and deranged. "You little rich girls are such prisses."

Bittercup gave him a sour look. "I don't know what you're talking about. I ain't rich."

"Oh really?" The man drew a laser pistol from within his jacket, jabbing it in her face. The weapon had previously been her sidearm, stolen when the thugs had jumped her. "And what's this, hmm? Pretty expensive looking toy, girlie. And very high quality! Your brother also had a very nice laser rifle on him, didn't he? Now what would two regular Wasteland folk be doing with such fancy toys? Care to enlighten us?"

Although she was pissed off as hell, Bittercup wisely kept her mouth shut. She'd learned back in Goodsprings what loose lips could do, and she really didn't want a repeat of that awful day. Besides, she really doubted these morons would believe her, no matter what she said.

"Cat got yer tongue?" The wily-haired man laughed before shoving the pistol back inside his jacket.

For the next fifteen minutes, the strange group consisting of kidnappers and kidnappee continued the long march down the I-15. No one spoke, not a sound was uttered. The only thing that filled their ears was the heavy crunch of their boots on the sandy, rocky pavement. That is, of course, until Bittercup opened her mouth again.

"I need to pee."

The thin man cursed while the one in the suit laughed loudly.

* * *

The sun was just setting when the gang decided to make camp near the side of the road. The seven men and one captive plunked their weary forms onto the sand near the battered remains of a burned down car. Bittercup had been weary of this at first, but then she remembered that vehicles on the West Coast hadn't switched to nuclear reactors yet so the chances of this one blowing up in her face was pretty rare.

The rat-faced boy began starting a fire while the white haired man pulled some pots and pans out of his pack. The leader of the group strode up to her sitting form, his large bulk moving with surprising grace.

"After we feed you, you'll sleep," he told her. "If you open your mouth and wake any of us up tonight, I will knock you out myself. Is that clear?"

Bittercup felt a tingle of fear upon hearing this, but she easily shoved it down and glared up at the intimidating man standing before her. "What the hell do you guys want with me, anyway? I didn't do anything to you!"

"Ransom, stupid," the thin man in the wool coat said as he chewed on some dried meat.

"We left a note to your brother. It contains a map to a nearby location, as well as our demand of five thousand caps for your return," the leader explained. "He will meet us tomorrow at the predetermined time. If he is smart and brings us the sum we asked for, then you will be returned unharmed."

"That's just stupid!" Bittercup yelped. "We don't have five thousand caps!"

The white haired man laughed. "Oh, well, that sucks for you then, don't it, girlie? I guess we'll just have to sell you to some slavers then! Ha ha ha!"

The leader frowned. "Indeed. You just better hope that your brother can scrounge up the money by tomorrow. If you truly are important to him, then he will sell everything he owns. If that's not enough, then he will kill and steal the rest. If, however, he decides that you are not worth the sacrifice," the man narrowed his eyes, his features becoming quite fierce, "then there are many others in the Mojave who would be happy to purchase a healthy young woman for such a paltry sum."

Bittercup directed a spiteful look at him as the leader turned away and made his way across the campfire. Ratboy, as she began to call the youngest kidnapper, had managed to get the fire going and now Nest-head, as she had begun to call the creepy white-haired weirdo, was frying up some meat in a large frypan. Mean Asshole, as she had begun to call the thin man in the coat, was seated against the wrecked car eating some strips of jerky. Big Guy, the brute that had continually shoved her during the entire trip, was seated next to the fire waiting for the food to be cooked. The remaining two members of the group whom Bittercup had not been too familiar with (a wiry blonde man wearing a ragged poncho with baseball cap and a balding chubby man in combat armor) were also seated around the fire. The two carried bolt-action rifles, so she guessed them to be the snipers of the group. She named them Blondie and Lardass, respectively.

The captive Brotherhood Initiate wanted to shout and curse at all of them, tell off each one of these jokers that they didn't know who they were messing with. She wanted to boast about who she was, where she'd come from, and who exactly it was that was going to rescue her. She wanted to tell them that all seven of them were most _definitely_ screwed, that John Black, Star Paladin of the Capital Wasteland Brotherhood of Steel, the infamous Lone Wanderer who had all but single-handedly defeated the Enclave and Super Mutant threat, was coming after them. And even though they may be big, tough outlaws in this stupid little desert, to John they were nothing but pitiful bugs to be squished as he had faced much, much tougher things in his day.

But in the end, she decided to bite her tongue and remain silent. The lesson of Goodsprings had hit her hard. It was because of her big mouth that that robot Victor attacked them, and it was because of her stupid ramblings that Paladin Cody had died. She would rather kill herself than make such a mistake again, and swore to herself that no one would die again because of her.

She turned away from the light of the campfire and lay on her side, trying to ignore everything around her. She wanted to forget the sinking sun, the wide, open tracts of land, and, most of all, the seven assholes who were nearby, talking and laughing and making jokes, acting like they were real people and not a group of disgusting, evil savages that kidnapped people and sold them for pocket change. She wished desperately that she was home, away from this hell that was the Mojave Wasteland. But then another thought hit her: just _where_ exactly was home? The Citadel, where she was treated like a retarded idiot because she couldn't keep up with the training? Big Town, where all the residents thought she was a joke and pretty much just ignored her? Little Lamplight, where everyone always teased and picked on her ever since she could remember?

Bittercup clenched her eyes tightly shut. She had promised herself a long, long time ago that she would never cry. The world was crap, she told herself, but she would _never_ let it get to her. She would let all the hell that life could toss at her just bounce off her skin and not let it bother her. Go ahead, world! Do your worst! She would often cope by writing poems and stories in her head, or dream about life in other places, other worlds, pretend that she was maybe on a spaceship flying away from the hellhole she was currently in. Whenever she was forced back to deal with life, she always felt frustrated and angry. She hated this planet and everything on it! But no matter how much life beat her up, kicked her when she was down, smashed her face into the mud, she would _not_ cry.

"Aw, what'sa matter, princess?" called out Nest-head from the near the campfire. "You not hungry? Oh well, more for us then!" The others chuckled.

"Leave the fool alone," the leader rumbled. "If she is too weak to accept her fate and wishes to starve, then let her."

Bittercup wrapped her arms around her, bit down fiercely on her tongue. She would not break her promise. Not for these assholes, not for anything! Come on you stupid, shithole of a world! Is that all you got! Ha! You're going to have to do better than that to get me to turn on the waterworks!

A small smile curled her lips upward. No, this world would have to try much, much harder than that.

* * *

Gustav Mortenson frowned as he watched his captive turn over on her side, facing away from the fire. It was obvious she meant not to eat, even though he could tell that she was hungry. It always annoyed him whenever the captive became stubborn and refused to eat. Such a pitiful display served no purpose other than to boost the captive's ego while negatively affecting their physical well-being.

He saw the Doc noticing the girl's refusal to eat as well. "Aw, what'sa matter, princess," the white-haired ex-physician called out in a deriding tone. "You not hungry? Oh well, more for us then!"

Gus knew the Doc, and knew the man wasn't as crazy and demented as he acted. Doc Sunset was smart and highly intelligent, not to mention a bit soft-hearted deep down inside. Doc had wanted to rile the girl up, to use her anger to knock her out of her funk so that she'd eat something.

"Leave the fool alone," Gustav added. "If she is too weak to accept her fate and wishes to starve, then let her."

Unfortunately, the taunts just seemed to push the girl even further into moroseness. Gus rolled his eyes, disgusted at the weakness of these westerners. Every one of his captives had shown such weakness, and he silently wondered how the NCR could have grown as powerful as it had with such pitiful specimens as its citizens.

Gus Mortenson, of course, was not his real name. Truth be told, he couldn't actually remember what his original name was. It had been many years since he'd used it last and his mind had long ago forgotten. He did have another name besides the first one, though, that of Masus Adolphus. Now _that_ was a name he remembered. It was the name given to him by Caesar's Legion, a supposedly honorable name bestowed once he was deemed fit to serve.

He had been seven years old when the first of the Legionaries marched down into his tribe's lands, cutting through the defenders like they were nothing but tall grass. Their red banners and strange armor were both awe-inspiring and horrific to his tribe, a primitive people who still used stone-tipped spears and wore ragged furs.

The day of the Legion attack on his village, he and his mother were hiding in the central tent along with the tribe's other women and children. His father, and all the fathers in the village, were fighting the red-cloaked invaders. He didn't remember much about his father, only that he had a thick black beard with little tufts of gray in it. Gus also recalled the last time he saw him, his back tall and proud against the rising sun, as he and the other men bid farewell to their wives and children before marching out to meet their deaths.

All through the battle the women clutched their children to them, all the while hearing the horrible sounds of their men screaming and dying. There were shouts of hatred as well as pleas for mercy, each scream and yell growing fainter and fainter until at last only silence remained. It was mere moments after the last scream fell silent, a mere three beats of Gus's small heart, that the tent flapped opened and the first of the Legionaries entered. The scarlet clad men mercilessly separated screaming women from their crying children, beating any who resisted viciously. The older women, those who were past child-bearing age and thus useless to Caesar's plans, were cut down on the spot, hacked to death with machetes while the horrified onlookers watched. Slave collars were then attached to the remaining women, and soon they were marched out of the tent. Not even a moment was spared to allow them time to say goodbye to their children.

The children were then separated further. Females were fitted with collars and taken away, whilst the males were sorted into age groups. Those aged five and up were gathered and marched away while the youngest ones were left in the tent. Gus didn't know what became of the younger children as he and the older boys were led away quickly. Only later on, when he was a full legionary, did he learn that procedure dictated that the fate of the youngest children of a newly integrated tribe was usually left to the discretion of the conquering officer. Basic practice was to leave newborns and the younger children in the care of their mothers until they became fit to serve the Legion. But sometimes logistics or other factors would prevent the taking of young children. This resulted in the Legion leaving them to die, though a truly merciful Centurion would have the children killed before departing.

Gus often wondered what became of his mother. Did she become a slave, or was she one of the lucky few females to be chosen to serve Caesar as a priestess of Mars? Did she have any other children? Was she even still alive? Sadly, he never discovered the answers to such questions, and probably never would. Life training in Caesar's Legion was rough. Children who failed to live up to the lofty expectations of their teachers suffered, and if they broke or were too weak mentally to rise up to the challenges presented them, then they were tossed out and became slaves. He, even at age seven, could not afford to show any weakness.

Gus chuckled. The profligates of the NCR often called the Legion an army of slavers when in fact such a description was the complete opposite. Caesar's Legion was a nation of _slaves_. Everyone under the banner of the bull served, whether it was the lowliest of females who were basically nothing but a breeding mule, or the highest Legate in charge of the full might of the Legion's forces. Everyone was a slave to Caesar's will. Each one of their lives were worthless, each one could be put to death at any time. And everyone knew this. No one under the Legion was free except for Caesar himself. Caesar was the center of the Legion, its head and heart, its leader, king and god.

It then shouldn't have been a surprise that his death meant the end of everything.

Caesar had died in his tent during the journey back to Arizona. He had been ill for months before, but the disastrous events at Hoover Dam pushed him over the edge. Weeks previous to the defeat, his health had been on a steady decline. There were rumors that his inner circle were forced to salvage a Pre-War medical artifact in an attempt to stem his ills. But all their effort was for naught as disaster after disaster plagued the Legion's activities in Vegas, each dire news slowly chipping away at their leader's health. It was as if Mars Himself had abandoned their great empire, and all their efforts to stem disaster were in vain.

Many lower ranking legionaries claimed that their bad luck happened during the First Battle of Hoover Dam. They whispered amongst themselves that the Malpais Legate, the so-called Burned Man, had put a curse on Caesar as vengeance for his punishment. But Gus knew better. He was a Decanus, after all, and was privy to information that the common legionary was not.

The cursed fate began with the Courier's betrayal of the Legion. Vulpes Inculta had learned from his spies in the Strip that she had fully sided with New Vegas's enigmatic ruler, Mr. House. Caesar was _furious._ He sent out his best assassins to eliminate the female, but all of them failed to return. More bad news came in the failed assassination of the NCR's President, an operation that had taken them months to prepare for. There were rumors that House and his Courier were instrumental in saving President Kimball's life.

Some weeks later, Caesar's health turned for the worse when messengers from Arizona arrived with troubling news. They told of how mighty spears from the heavens had descended upon numerous settlements in Legion territory, bathing the land in fire and death. According to them, the cities of Dry Wells, Dolan Springs, and the capital itself, Flagstaff, had been reduced to rubble. The messengers had spoken of panic from most of the people, that they believed the god Mars had brought down his punishment upon them. The two men pleaded with Caesar, begging him to return to Arizon and help his people in their time of need.

Caesar had both of messengers crucified for their impertinence.

Even after such a disaster, the Legion marched on. Caesar put all his hopes on defeating the NCR at Hoover Dam and conquering New Vegas. He told his lieutenants that Mars was merely testing their resolve, and that to falter now would be to invite the god's wrath. Frankly, it was in Gus's opinion that such a thing didn't matter to his men; the Legion feared and loved Caesar more than any god.

And so, they marched off to battle, in an attempt to conquer Hoover Dam for the second time. This time, though, would be even more disastrous than the last.

Gus remembered that day, two years ago, very well. Every detail had become seared into memory, every taste, sound, and feeling burned into him. He remembered the heat of the day, the harsh wind and the roar of screams and bullets. He remembered carving through the NCR's ranks, leading his men across the dam, only to have his advance thwarted by hellish machines from the air. One was a metal bird as large as a fortress, the roar of its engines cutting through the din of battle. He saw its belly open, dropping its deadly cargo of explosives onto several Contubernia in front of him, reducing all of the legionaires into flaming corpses. Another metal bird also appeared, this one smaller than the previous, and landed atop the dam to spit out several heavily armed, metal-suited men. These metal warriors attacked with ferocity, their tactics and weaponry superior to anything Gus and his men had ever faced. He lost half his Contubernia to those metal devils, though he was luckier than most as many a Decanus lost their entire group.

Just when he thought that all hope was lost, that things could not possibly be any worse, Mars seemed to take great joy in his despair and heaped down more misfortune upon him and the Legion. Without any warning, any signs or indication, House's machines appeared. They numbered in the _thousands_, swarming out from the hills like a blue wave of death. They showed no fear or mercy, their rain of bullets, beams, and rockets unending as they reduced the Legion's soldiers to corpses. It was then that Gus shouted at his men to retreat; he knew that upon doing so, he would be signing his death warrant. No Decanus would ever sound retreat unless his Centurion did so first. But the Centurion leading them was dead, ripped apart by one of the metal bird's explosives. So he took it upon himself to run, and his men, as well as others not belonging to his Contubernia, ran as well. His actions, which some would call cowardice, probably saved many lives.

They ran for hours, away from the dam, and away from The Fort, which was where House's mechanical demons seemed to be emerging from. They hid for a day, resting and regrouping, before heading east and meeting up with other stragglers from the battle. Eventually they found the main Legion camp, set up several miles east of the Fort. Out of the three thousand men who marched out that day to take the dam, only a hundred and fifty remained. Caesar, looking paler and more gaunt than he did a few days ago, announced the march back east. There he hoped to consolidate his forces, to resupply his army, and lick his wounds. He swore to return to Vegas to finish what he started, but many of his men did not believe his words would amount to anything. The Legion had never taken such heavy losses, never faced such evil adversaries. They were tired, like old men way past their prime.

On the march home, Caesar died in his sleep. It was a peaceful, painless death, one that did not befit the ruler of the Legion. Caesar deserved a glorious end, one on the battlefield soaked in blood. His death should have been on his feet, he should have been slain honorably with a sword in his hand. Caesar should not have died like a sorry old man, slumbering in his bed, useless and past his prime.

The Legate Lanius was named the new Caesar, and his first decree was to set up a funeral pyre for the departed ruler. All the men watched, some weeping, as the first Caesar's body was cremated, his ashes collected and housed in a glorious golden urn. Caesar Lanius then gave a rousing speech, proclaiming himself officially as the new leader of the Legion, and declaring total war upon the NCR, New Vegas, and anyone else who took part in the battle at Hoover Dam. He promised to return west in a year's time to avenge Caesar and all our fallen brothers, a sentiment that many cheered.

To Gus, it all just seemed like empty words. He had seen the full might of the Legion thoroughly smashed. Although Lanius was a feared warrior and ruthless commander, he was no Caesar. Hell, he wasn't even a Joshua Graham. He was not the brilliant strategist those men were, and there was no way he could hold the Legion together. He did not command love and respect like the old Caesar did; all he had was fear.

Gus had to admit, though, that fear was a potent weapon. As the Legion marched back to Arizona, there were several incidences of legionaries deserting. It wasn't anything organized, and their flights were not sophisticated. During the night they would leave their tents, telling their Decanus some excuse, then just march off into the dark desert without looking back. It was a growing problem as the days continued, but the new Caesar quickly put a stop to the practice. One night one of the deserters was caught, a young man who was just fifteen years old. Lanius ordered the boy, along with his entire Contubernia, to have their arms and legs hacked off, their wounds staunched, then have their bellies sliced open and disemboweled in front of the entire assembled Legion. For hours Gus and his men stood at attention with the entire army, sweating in the desert sun, as the deserter and his squad slowly died of their heinous wounds. It was only after the last of the unfortunate men ceased his pained squirming that the new Caesar waved his large hand, dismissing them from the grisly sight.

After that there were no more desertions.

The road east was long, but the men of the Legion were strong, even demoralized and defeated as they were. Many still believed in Caesar's plans, longed to see his grand vision of a unified humanity under the banner of the bull. The rest continued out of fear, the memory of the unfortunate deserter and his even more unfortunate comrades still fresh in their minds. Gus himself wasn't sure where he stood. Truth be told, he truly felt no love for the Legion. They were brutal and oppressive, but it was all he knew. The life of a Legionaire was all that he had. He was no loyal supporter of Caesar's grand ideals, hell, he couldn't even understand what the old man truly wanted to accomplish. He merely followed the Legion's banner because it was what he had been trained to do, and to do otherwise meant death.

Gus's loyalty, as well as many others', pretty much died on the day Lanius's ragged army entered Phoenix. They had been traveling south on the 93 to circumvent the radioactive wasteland that had become of Flagstaff, making numerous stops and detours in order to avoid the toxic nuclear clouds of dust that blew from the destroyed capital. Thus it took more than a month to reach Phoenix, which was where the new Caesar learned that Arizona was in a state of civil war.

Apparently, when word of the old Caesar's death reached Legion territory, a young man calling himself Augustus rose up to claim the title of Caesar for himself. He claimed to be the son of Caesar and rallied the common subjects to his cause, along with a large number of Legionaries. Many of the loyalists, who supported Lanius, attempted to crush the rebellion, but many of their leaders were assassinated by traitors in an impressive almost simultaneous killing spree. The rebels held sway in Two Sun and the southern parts of Arizona and New Mexico, while those loyal to Lanius kept Phoenix and the north to themselves. So far the loyalists were beating the rebels back, but as Augustus continued to gain more and more popular support, the rebel's numbers continued to swell while Lanuis, whose forces were mostly decimated from the events in Vegas, would only stand to lose more men. Many of his aides advised Lanius to parlay with Augustus and negotiate, or perhaps send Frumentarii to assassinate Augustus. But the new Caesar would not listen, choosing instead to launch an all-out assault on Two Sun. He ordered his Centurions to get their tired and exhausted men to ready themselves, and that they would march on the rebels come the morning.

Gus did not bother to wait that long. He snuck out during the night while the exhausted Legionaires slept, and didn't look back since. From what he heard later on, the Legion was still in the midst of their bloody civil war, Legionaire against Legionaire, hacking away at each other with their machetes, all in the name of two men who wanted to call themselves Caesar.

Gus wanted no part of it. He was tired of fighting, so tired of it. All his life it was all he did: fight, kill, march and obey. He had nothing to look forwards to, except perhaps sleep, the meals, and the occasional rutting with one of his men. True, as a Decanus he had the privilege of taking one of the female slaves if he so wished, but frankly taking a woman in such a way held no appeal for him. The one and only time he did so, he kept seeing his mother's face. And so whatever comfort he required he took from his willing men, whom more often than not needed the release as much as he did.

And so Masus Adolphus headed back west. While passing by an abandoned farmstead, he found a few sets of old clothing. It was with both relief and despair that he stripped off his Legion gear. He had worn the armor for so long that it felt a part of him, and as much as he hated the life, he had to admit that a part of him would miss it as well.

He marched up the 93, crossed the searing Arizona desert until he came to the Colorado River. Steeling himself, he splashed into the cold water and swam across its length; once his feet felt the rough sands of the Mojave on the other side, he knew that his life with the Legion was over.

It was no surprise to him when he discovered that the NCR was nowhere in sight and that Mr. House was in charge of the entire region. Although it was the NCR that the Legion marched off to fight at Hoover Dam, it was not the NCR who had defeated them. Ultimately, it was through House's machinations that both powers fell. Both Caesar and General Oliver underestimated the leader of New Vegas, seeing him as nothing but a pitiful gangster, a lame symbol of a dead by-gone era. House made fools of them both, and now both leaders were dead. One from natural causes, and the other from a self-inflicted gunshot wound.

Gustav Mortenson was a name he made up on the spot while traveling through Novac. He was trading with a passing merchant who asked him for his name. Since he knew that "Masus Adolphus" wouldn't garner him any discounts on the goods he was trading (not to mention that he would most likely have gotten shot), Gus spat out a name that didn't sound too made-up. Thankfully he had interrogated his share of NCR prisoners, so he knew what profligate names were supposed to sound like.

It was from the trader that Gus heard about Bitter Springs. Apparently, the former NCR refugee camp had grown into quite a prosperous town, and mainly took in people fleeing from the war-torn Legion lands and helped to get them set up in the Mojave. For the first time, Gus felt a small sliver of hope. Perhaps this was his chance at a fresh start, a place where he could forget about the past and set up a new life for himself. Maybe he could try his hand at some so-called honest work, one that didn't involve killing or enslaving.

Much to his shame, Gus would have to admit that he did a lot of childish fantasizing during his trip to Bitter Springs. He imagined himself as some farmer, or perhaps a hunter. Maybe even a merchant, selling his wares to travelers and passers-by. In some of his daydreams he even owned a shop, one with a display window out front that showed off all his merchandise. For the first time in his life, Gus allowed himself to dream. He dreamed of a life where he shed no blood, a life where he lived as the profligates did, where he owned a house with a bed and maybe even a working toilet. Perhaps he could even bed a woman without feeling that awful gut-churning guilt, maybe even have some children and actually raise them himself instead of giving them up to the priestesses to be fed Caesar's lies and indoctrinated into the hell that was the Legion. Maybe he could fall asleep and just for one night not see the faces of all the men, women and children he was forced to kill, all to further the aims of some holier-than-thou madman whose ambitions were too great for even a nation of slaves to bear.

Then maybe, just maybe, he could actually let out a genuine laugh or smile without fearing that it would be seen as a weakness. He hadn't smiled since he was seven years old.

Hope is like a drug. It gets in your veins and with each beat of your heart it pumps into more and more of your body. The less you've had of it the more potent it becomes once it's in you, and if you're not careful it'll make you stupid. This was what happened to Gus when he journeyed north to Bitter Springs. He let hope get a grip on him, so much so that his usually sharp eyes didn't notice the warning signs until it was almost too late.

When the trader said that Bitter Springs took in refugees from Legion territory, Gus thought that he meant all people from the Legion. What the unsuspecting man had actually meant was the people the former NCR outpost took in were the Legion's _victims_. These were the folk from the communities the Legion ravaged, the survivors from the tribes that escaped Legion assimilation, the lowly female slaves who were battered and violated but managed to escape. These were the people that had felt the brunt of Caesar's whip, the ones who lost almost everything to the Bull. So they were less than happy to find a former Legionary in their midst.

Bitter Springs was a large settlement, one that was still growing as more and more refugees streamed in from Arizona due to the brutal civil war tearing the Legion apart. These folk were haggard and bedraggled, very thin and malnourished. Gus, on the other hand, was tall and muscular, very well-fed and healthy. It was easy to see that he didn't belong with the rest of them. But most damning of all was his demeanor, the way he held himself. Many of the refugees had lived for years under the Legion's boot; some in fact had suffered under them for their entire lives. They knew the gait and poise of a Legionary when they saw it. So even though Gus wasn't wearing the armor of the Bull, to these people he may as well have been wearing the red banner on his back.

He was left alone for a few hours, though he did notice the stares and whispers. It was enough to trigger his danger senses, and he was debating whether or not to leave town when the mob found him. Word had traveled around that a Legionary was spotted, inflaming the rage and hate of everyone around. A large crowd gathered, mostly made up of women armed with makeshift weapons, then set out after him. When they found him, he was shown no mercy.

It was a miracle that Gus survived. He owed it all to Caesar's brutal training regiment, which made his body fit and he gave him knowledge of mob suppression tactics. Wave after wave of angry refugees attacked him with clubs, knives, pick axes and stones. Gus, armed with a machete, hacked his way through the onslaught, cutting through limbs and flesh like he was a farmer harvesting crops. It was a brutal gauntlet of pain and blood, his ears ringing from the screams of rage and utter hatred directed at him. He had never fought so fiercely as he did that day, slashing his way through angry men and women as he fought his way out of town. It was hectic and confusing, which only served to help aid his flight as the mob was brought to a frenzy and was more or less fighting each other to get at him. Had it been an organized posse attacking him, Gus was certain that he would have died that day.

Despite his miraculous escape, the former Legionary did not come out unscathed. A large stone had smashed into his left temple right above the eye, causing him permanent vision loss in that eye along with countless reoccurring migraines. Three of his ribs were also broken, as were his left shoulder and nose. He lost two teeth and his left index finger. One of the women attacking him had tried to stab him in the groin with a butcher knife; thankfully she missed though her attack sliced open his left side.

Gus, bleeding and broken, managed to find help on the road when he came across a merchant caravan. He lied and said that he was attacked by raiders, and the caravan leader took pity on him and patched up the worst of his wounds. They then took him to one of the Followers of the Apocalypse clinics just inside of New Vegas, where he spent the next few weeks recovering from his injuries.

The events at Bitter Springs pretty much soured the former Legionary's views on the people around him. He became skittish around large crowds, and would often break out into cold sweats if around too many people. This made the crowded and filthy streets of Freeside unappealing to him, and he made sure to get out of the city as quick as he could once the Followers released him. Unfortunately Gus was out of caps, and jobs were slim out in the Wasteland. He did some odd jobs for some locals outside New Vegas' walls, but the pay was lousy and usually spent on food and water. Although Gus tried to stay on the straight and narrow, old habits die hard and he was forced to rely on his Legion training to survive.

His first robbery went pretty smoothly. He stalked a well-to-do looking woman coming out of New Vegas and ambushed her on the Long 15 some miles outside the city. She resisted at first, but his superior size coupled with a few threats of rape won him her cooperation. Gus took the woman's sidearm, ammo, and caps, but left her with enough food to get to the Mojave Outpost. She, obviously, wasn't particularly grateful for his generosity, as she cursed and spat expletives at him while he went on his merry way.

His second robbery did not go well at all. Gus had spotted a wealthy couple, who were probably tourists from the NCR, walking towards the direction of the Gun Runners compound. The fools had the gall to wear expensive new clothing and jewelry, plus they only brought _one_ bodyguard. Gus shook his head at profligate stupidity before taking off after them. He made his move after stalking them for an hour, taking his time to find the right moment. The former Legionary snuck up behind the bored bodyguard and clubbed the man over the head with his pistol. After making sure he was all nice and unconcious, the former Legionary then pointed the weapon at the two shocked Californians.

The woman screamed. The man screamed louder. And they kept on screaming until Gus smacked both of them in the face. Unfortunately for him, the ruckus caught the attention of two passing Securitrons. Gus cursed his luck and took off, ignoring the robots' orders to halt as he pounded dirt to get away from them. The pursuing blue machines were relentless, each shooting an unending amount of bullets and laser beams at him during a harrowing thirty minute chase. Gus shot back, of course, but his 9mm hardly made a dent in the Securitrons' thick armor plate. He eventually lost the two after climbing up a steep, sandy incline. One of the robots tried to follow, but its single tire was unable to catch any traction on the loose dirt and tumbled down into a dusty heap. The other saw its compatriot's trouble and rolled off, probably attempting to find a more stable area of land to continue pursuit. Gus didn't wait for it to do so, as he had quickly run off and hid out in the desert.

This incident made him decide not to perform any more robberies near the city limits since the risk of running into a patrol of Vegas' heavily armed robots was just too great. He eventually settled down in the area south of Goodsprings. That stretch of the Long 15 was pretty much deserted of Securitron patrols, but it was a route used regularly by both tourists and smaller caravans heading towards New Vegas. A few months later, Gus teamed up with Doc Sunset, a notorious outlaw from California, and the two began hitting larger and larger caravans.

Time steadily went on, each passing day falling into a comfortable routine of bullets and bloodshed. Although Gus never sought to kill anyone during his robberies, he didn't go out of his way to not kill anyone, either. If his victims cooperated, then all was good. If they resisted, then they were dead. It was a simple set of rules.

Eventually Gus and the Doc took on more members in their growing gang of misfits and cut-throats. Some joined to get in on the action; others were simply strays that they picked up who had no other options left to them. All in all, Gus's gang was quite the eclectic bunch.

Doc Sunset, with his wild white hair and tattered Pre-War suit, was the weirdest of the group. He was wily and spry, funny and even-tempered, but he could be mean when he needed to be and a hell of a shot with a pistol. He had quite the reputation back in the NCR, which was one of the reasons he headed east into the Mojave. Apparently his reputation had gotten _too_ big, and he had a whole mess of bounty hunters after his head in California. Rumors were that the price on Doc was up to twelve thousand NCR dollars, though Gus suspected that Doc himself might have overinflated such a number just to tempt him into turning the old codger in himself.

Floyd Sannison and his brother Daryl were the next to join up. Although the two claimed to be related, you could not guess it by looking at them. They were different as night and day: Floyd was the elder, though he was shorter and far skinnier than his huge and hulking younger sibling. Floyd's wiry physique was often hidden under his baggy wool overcoat while Daryl kept his muscular form comfortable in a dingy white tanktop and brown cargo pants. The younger brother was also a lot calmer and more laid-back than the elder, who could be quite skittish and nervous at times. Floyd also had a vicious streak a mile wide, one that earned him Gus's ire in more than one occasion. Thankfully the man was smart enough not to let his viler tendencies interfere with the job at hand, though Gus suspected it was only a matter of time before the thin man would eventually snap.

The next one to join was Billy Keen, a young blond man who looked barely out of his teens. He was thin, almost delicate looking, but was a hell of a long-range shot with a sniper rifle. Gus also suspected him to be a homosexual, as he had caught the young man eyeing himself and Daryl on more than one occasion. Gus was tempted to approach Billy some night in order to find some mutual comfort, but he wasn't sure how he or the others would have reacted to such a thing. He was aware that profligates had some taboos about such activities.

Ben Gunson joined up some months back. He was a once a prisoner at the NCRCF as well as former member of the Powder Gangers. After that group was wiped out by House's forces, Ben tried to go straight and get an honest job. That lasted about as long as Gus's own attempt, and the man ended up blowing a hole in the side of Primm's Mojave Express HQ building and stealing a safe full of caps. He ran into Gus's gang while on the run from Sheriff Meyer's posse and quickly joined up. Ben was an expert with dynamite, plus he was not too shabby with a long gun.

The last to join up with them was the youngest member of the group. Timmy, as Doc had come to call him, was part of a cargo some slavers were smuggling through the Mojave on the way to Legion territory. Gus and the others thought the caravan they hit were transporting food and medicine, so it was quite a surprise when the crates were opened up to reveal twelve half-starved men, women and children. As soon as Gus saw their sunken eyes and hopeless expressions, he knew what they were. He, after all, had transported thousands of people like them under the red banner of Caesar's bull.

A fury he hadn't felt in months suddenly erupted within him, one that he directed at the captured slavers. During the fight to take the caravan, his gang had managed to capture three alive. They usually ransomed prisoners off to their employers or families, which could be surprisingly lucrative depending on who was caught. These three, though, would never be exchanged for caps as Gus put a bullet in each of their skulls. After the act was done, the rage left and the former Legionary was shaken.

"What the hell did you do that for?" Doc had asked him, his voice sounding surprisingly concerned.

"I don't know," Gus answered, and he wondered if Doc could tell he was lying.

He then ordered the slaves released, much to Floyd's displeasure. He didn't argue the point though, no one did, as they had never seen their leader ever get so angry. They were used to Gus being stoic and ice cold. They weren't used to seeing the big man blow up like a raging Fiend hopped up on psycho.

Although the slaves all ran off after being freed, one decided to stay as he had become awestruck by Gus's act. He was a young boy, probably no older than fifteen, and one could tell that he was not all there in the head. He talked only in wails and grunts, his eyes looked glassy and empty like a brahmin, but it was clear to everyone that he had a bad case of hero-worship towards the former Legionary. Gus and the rest of the gang yelled at him to leave, but he stubbornly refused, following the gang like a stray dog as they trudged off back to camp. No matter how much they yelled or fired their guns in his direction, the boy refused to stop following them. Gus even let Floyd beat the kid bloody, and though that got them free of him for a day, the boy had returned the next much to everyone's surprise.

After days of the boy following them, the gang eventually relented and accepted his presence. The boy earned his keep by mainly doing the grunt work: carrying bags and ammo, fetching water and wood for the fire, cleaning their camp when required. He worked hard and always smiled, which earned him the grudging acceptance of everyone in the gang. Even Floyd eventually grew to like him; on one occasion the gruff man patted the boy on the head and called him their gang's little mascot.

Doc began calling him Timmy one day, and the name just stuck. Gus asked him why he chose that name, to which the Doc replied, "I owned a mutt named Timmy once. Seemed appropriate. Ain't that right, boy?"

Timmy just nodded dumbly and laughed, obviously not understanding.

* * *

Bittercup was woken early the next morning, so early in fact that the sun wasn't even out. The air was chilly and she shivered a bit as her body shook off sleep. The Brotherhood initiate looked up, grumpily rubbing at her sleep-encrusted eyes to find Blondie glaring down at her.

"Get up. It's time for you to piss," the young man said simply.

Bittercup stared hatefully at him.

Blondie sighed, rolling his blue eyes in irritation. "Look, you can either come with me now and go out behind those rocks to piss, or you can do it here in front of everybody once they wake up. You ain't gonna get another chance to go, so chose wisely."

_God, what a perv. _Bittercup scowled hatefully at him but stood up and followed the man into the dark.

"You better not try anything," the Brotherhood initiate hissed at the blonde.

Blondie directed a disgusted glare over his shoulder at her. "As if. I don't swing that way."

"Oh." Bittercup mumbled, slightly embarrassed. She'd never actually met any gay people before; well, none that she knew of. Nobody in the Capital Wasteland ever admitted to being a fruit, at least not to her. Openly admitting to it usually got you beaten up real bad. She'd even heard rumors that there were some people killed down in Rivet City just for being suspected.

The east coast girl continued to watch the blond man as he led her to the rocks. Once the two of them were out of sight of the camp behind the obstructions, Blondie motioned for her to do her business. Bittercup blushed and turned around, undoing her pants. _It's no big deal_, she kept telling herself. _He likes guys, he doesn't wanna see your stuff._

She had to admit though that now that she was being forced to pee, she noticed how full and in need of emptying her bladder was. Bittercup was just about to squat down and let lose when she noticed that Blondie was also doing the same thing.

"Hey, what are you..." The Initiate's eyes bulged when she saw a distinct lack of male equipment between the young man's legs. "Holy shit!" she shouted. "You're a chick!"

Blondie raised an eyebrow in confusion, her dusty face unsure at what she had just heard. "Well, yeah. What the hell did you think I was, a guy?"

Bittercup nodded. "Hey, are you one of those drag queens I've heard about?"

Blondie's face turned bright red. "What the _hell_ are you going on about, kid?"

"Um," Bittercup, in a rare moment of insight, realized that continuing on her previous insinuation would be a bad thing, especially to her armed captor. "It's just that, uh, well... you pull it off really well! I never knew!"

Although she meant it as a compliment, her words only seemed to irritated the other woman more. _"Pull what _off well? What the fuck are you talking about?"

"I, uh, um," Bittercup took a deep breath and sighed, allowing her brain to form words that wouldn't be construed as an insult. She, of course, failed miserably. "I understand why you did it," she stated, hoping that showing some empathy, especially as another female, would calm the blond woman down. "It's a dangerous world out here, a dangerous man world, and you needed to protect yourself. Dressing as a man is obviously the best way to-"

Her words were cut off, however, as Blondie cut in. "Are you fucking serious? I ain't dressed like a man!" Her voice was cold as steel. "What are you tryin' to say? That I look like a dude?"

"Um, no! Yes. I mean..." Further words were halted though as Blondie's rough hand grabbed her by the hair and hauled her to her feet. "Ow!"

"C'mon, Princess. Piss time's over," the blond woman snarled as she began dragging the protesting girl back to camp.

"B-but I didn't even pee yet!" Bittercup complained while attempting to pull her pants back up.

"Too bad, bitch. You can piss in your pants on the road."

"You God damn evil tranny! Let me go!"

Of course, all the shouting had woken up the others. Bittercup shut up, as she quickly remembered her predicament. She was still a captive, one that was being held for ransom. It wouldn't do her any good to push her luck. She needed to play it cool, at least until John could get her free. She just hoped he'd hurry up and rescue her already; being a prisoner just wasn't any fun.

* * *

"How the hell did that asshole beat us here?" Floyd asked, an angry sneer on his thin face.

Gus grunted, watching the distant figure of their captive's brother through his binoculars. The young man in question was dressed in green combat armor, over which a ratty brown duster was worn. He was seated atop the rusted husk of a sedan, looking bored as he glanced around the empty lot that was their appointed meeting place. The man didn't look armed, which set off a whole bunch of warning signals in Gus's head.

"That boy's got balls," Doc muttered, watching the figure through his own bronze spyglass. He then turned to their captive, flashing her a devious smile. "He just better have our caps, too, else you two aren't gonna have that fairy tale sibling reunion."

The girl merely sneered at him, before glancing away.

"Sucker must've hiked all day 'n night, double timin' it jus'ta get here 'fore us," Ben spoke up, rubbing his scruffy chin.

"I don't like it," Gus grumbled as he put away his binoculars. "Billie, Ben." The two long range specialists of the group looked up at their leader, each wearing serious expressions on their faces. "Scout around, make sure this kid didn't hire any help. The last thing we need now is to have a posse of bounty hunters at our backs. If you don't find anything, then head up there and there," Gus pointed to two nearby hilltops that would give both of them excellent sniping positions down at the vacant lot. "Once you get in position, the rest of us will head down to the meet. Keep a keen eye out and watch our backs. We don't need any surprises."

Billie nodded and stalked off. Ben gave everyone a relaxed grin and waved. "Don't get y'rselves killed, naw!" He then rushed off, his rotund body's steps surprisingly silent.

"Floyd, Daryl," Gus glanced back a the two brothers, both of whom flanked their hostage at her sides. "Keep our package safe and silent. If she speaks, shut her up."

Floyd grinned, obviously liking the order while the girl opened her mouth to protest. Upon seeing the thin man's sharp look, she wisely shut her trap.

Gus looked back towards young Timmy, finding the boy preoccupied. He was silently staring upwards at the sky, a dumb smile worn on his dirty face. The former Legionary took a glance upwards and saw several puffy clouds slowly floating through the blue desert sky. He shook his head, wondering just what it was that the boy saw in his brain to warrant such interest.

It took about twenty minutes, but eventually Billie and Ben signaled from their respective hilltop perches. Gus was slightly relieved at finding out the girl's brother was alone. He had half expected the fool to hire a posse to ambush them, but thankfully it seemed that the rich boy was smarter than he looked. Maybe all would go without a hitch, and they'd get their caps and no one would end up killed.

He damn well knew that that was wishful thinking though; things in the Mojave never went off without a hitch.

Gus led the way down towards the vacant lot that was their chosen meeting place. Doc Sunset followed at his side. The Sannison brothers came after, with Bittercup in stuck in their grasp. Timmy brought up the rear a few paces behind them, his big eyes wide as he gazed about the locale, seeing things only he could see.

Their captive's brother saw the group approaching. He didn't seem concerned as he languidly pushed himself off of the ruined car he was perched on. He then remained standing where he was, waiting for them to come to him. Gus and the others obliged, walking with a purpose across the sand covered expanse that was once called a drive-in. All around them the metal remains of automobiles lay, like the corpses of long dead beasts withered dry by the Mojave's hateful sun. Gus and company strode through the rusted hulks, paying them no mind as they watched the young man in front of them for any sign of trouble.

The former Legionary brought his men to a halt, stopping some ten paces from their captive's brother. His eyes scanned the young man carefully, but even at this distance he was unable to spot any weapons upon his person. He also took in further details from the man, realizing that he was a bit older than Gus had first thought.

The brother had black, unruly hair which was streaked with random strands of premature gray. His eyes were a dull blue, the skin around them rough with the beginnings of harsh wrinkles. Although his face was young, it was ragged with numerous small nicks and scars, showing a multi-layered history throughout the landscape of his features. Gus frowned, as seeing him up close it was clear as day. This young man was not the soft, spoiled kid of a rich family. This boy had the look of a seasoned warrior, one that had been through all manner of hell, similar to Gus himself.

"I'm guessing you do not have our caps," Gus stated, anger evident in his voice.

"Nope," the young man in front of them answered.

Floyed hissed, temper flaring. His grip on the girl's arm tightened, causing her to squirm.

"And I'm guessing this one is not your sister," Gus continued, his fists clenching.

"Well, she is a sister, of a sort." The man stated with a calm shrug. He seemed totally at ease, despite being out numbered as well as unarmed.

How could a man be so calm, facing a group so much larger than him, all without a weapon? The simple answer was that he wouldn't be. Not unless he had something up his sleeve.

Gus readied himself mentally, preparing to draw his weapon if the need arose. "Well then, we have nothing more to talk about then."

He felt Doc tense up next to him, a sure sign that the old man was coiled up to draw his laser pistol at the slightest provocation.

"Well, we still need to see to you guys letting my friend go," the young man said, his face and body language still calm. "I gotta confess, I've been having a really bad few days." He chuckled softly, as if sharing a joke. "Ever since I got here, it's just been one bad news after another." He paused and let out an irritated sigh. "And I gotta say, I'm getting so damn sick of it."

"Who the fuck do you think you-" Floyd began, but his protest was cut off as the young man continued.

"You are going to let my friend go. Right now." His voice brokered no argument. His calm, even tone had the finality of the grave behind it. "Then you will turn around and leave the way you came." The young man's blue eyes flicked to each member of the gang in front of him, staring deep into their own with a steely resolve. "I really don't want to kill any of you, but I will if you force my hand. Do _not_ force my hand."

"Fool," Gus sneered. He reared his shoulders, pushing himself up to his full 6 foot, ten inch frame. "Do you think this is the full extent of our forces? We have this entire area covered. Make any move and my snipers will take you out!"

The ex-Legionary noticed a faint twitch in the man's right hand; it was slight, but his sharp eye saw it. Those eyes widened when he recognized a small remote detonator held within the other's fingers.

The scenery around them suddenly transformed into chaos as numerous explosions erupted all around them. Gus's jaw tightened when the hilltop vantage points used by Billie and Ben, along with several other prime sniping positions, became engulfed in fire from the massive detonations. Black smoke belched up into the desert sky, small flames burning brightly along the hilltops.

"Ben... Billie," Doc gasped, his wily eyes wide in shock. "Damn..."

"As you can see I've been spending those caps that you wanted me to pay as ransom," the young man said. "Mostly on explosives. Lots and lots of explosives."

Doc and the Sannison brothers reached their for their weapons, but they quickly stopped when their opponent raised his other hand.

"Nah-ah-ah!" The young man opened his left fist a bit to show another remote detonator. "Like I said, I spent a lot of caps on a whole lot of explosives. I took the precaution of setting some of them up on the hills and ridges around us, you know, just in case you decided to put up a sniper or two. As for the rest of my spending spree, well, these cars make such easy hiding places, don't you think?"

Gus and his gang looked around at the numerous husks of metal surrounding them. There were about ten to twelve of the things, each ready to blow. And there was no telling just how much explosives this lunatic had packed into each of them. Floyd cursed and backed away from the shell of one car that was uncomfortably close to his person.

"You're bluffing," Doc Sunset said with a crooked grin. "You push that button and you frag yourself along with Princess over here! We won't be the only ones to die!"

The young man returned the doctor's grin with a smirk of his own. Unlike Doc's though, his grin was serene and totally devoid of emotion. The perfect poker face.

"Well, this is Vegas," their opponent said. "Might as well bet all or nothing, especially with stakes as high as these." His smirk vanished. "You wanna call my bluff?"

Doc's grin disappeared as well.

Silence followed, as many pairs of eyes met one. Six men and one woman stood surrounded by cars, contained within a circle of fire. All underneath the harsh Mojave sun.

It was a classic standoff, no one dared move, and you could hear a lone pin drop.

* * *

**APPENDIX**

_**Text from a leaflet printed out and distributed by the forces of Caesar Augustus:**_

**CAESAR'S WILL IS ALIVE AND WELL**

**IN TWO SUN!**

**Although the Son of Mars has returned to**

**His father's great hall, Caesar's own heir has taken**

**up His grand mantle to rule the vast Legion his**

**father's will had assembled!**

**Let not the cowards who support the false Caesar,**

**the Butcher of Children Lanius, push you away**

**from Great Augustus's loving embrace. Mighty**

**Augustus accepts all who take up the**

**sword against the vile enemies of the Legion!**

**Slaves who join under Mighty Augustus's **

**violet banner will henceforth be promoted**

**to full Legionaries! All male subjects from**

**subordinate towns are eligible for the same**

**offer! Be strong! Stand fast against **

**the usurper and his traitor band!**

**Join Augustus's Legion!**

**FIDELITAS FORTITUDO OBEDIENTIA**


	10. Intermission 01

**Author's Note: **Sorry for the delay. I hate writer's block. Sad to say, but I'm stuck with a bad case of it. I'm half-way through Chapter 9 right now, though unfortunately it isn't turning out how I'd like. It's also much, much longer than I thought it would be, so I might have to trim it up a bit as well. I really don't want to cut it in half again, as that was what I had to do to Chapter 8. Thus, I decided to write up some intermissions which focus on the events happening to various side characters; hopefully this'll help my muse get off her lazy ass and give me some ideas on how to finish up the Lone Wanderer's battle of wits and brawn with the former Legionary, Gus.

**Intermission 01: Vegas**

Paladin Horner, despite the discomfort being caused by his injuries, couldn't help but gawk at the grand city before him. New Vegas, in all its glory, was stretched out in front of his eyes, giving the Paladin but a small glimpse at the neon limelight that would have been a common sight in Pre-War Las Vegas.

After being restrained at Doc Mitchel's clinic, Horner was carelessly tossed into a wagon being pushed by one of the Courier's robotic escorts. He was able to peek over the side of the wagon as he was being hauled away to see the poor doctor's body being tended to by several shocked members of the Goodsprings community. All of them looked to have been at a loss as to what to do, many flashing betrayed looks at their former beloved celebrity as she led the Securitrons out of town.

"Murderer!" shouted one young woman as the troupe rolled past.

The Courier ignored the insult, continuing through the town with a confident stride.

The trip north on the Long 15 was remarkably quiet. They encountered numerous travelers and merchant caravans leading goods-laden brahmin, but all gave wide berth to the young woman in the black suit and her cadre of robots. Horner was surprised at her endurance, as she led the way during the entire trip, not stopping once, not even to set up camp for the night. The Courier just tromped on towards the flashing glow of the city of New Vegas, which was visible in the distant horizon.

New Vegas itself was a sight to behold. Never in Horner's 25 years had he aver seen such a wonderous sight. Somehow, the location seemed eerily untouched by the bombs, with many of its buildings and facilities still standing. Not only that, but the city itself was powered, with almost every window they passed glowing from the soft luminescence of an electric light bulb. The contingent entered the city gates very early in the morning whilst the sun had hours yet to rise. Thus, Horner was treated to the bright neon lights emanating from the center of the city, a place he recalled being named the Strip. Before the strange troupe could get into the bright glow, they had to pass through Freeside, a somewhat run-down part of the city. The sight of the dirty, crowded streets was very familiar to Horner, as it reminded him of the various DC communities that had sprung up in the former capital's ruins after the Brotherhood cleared them of Super Mutants.

As the Courier led them through Freeside, a group of five young men dressed up in black leather jackets with almost identical hairdos strode up towards them. Their leader, a rough looking hoodlum wearing an arrogant smirk, was dressed in what looked like a Pre-War inmate's uniform. He waved to the Courier as his gang approached.

"Hey, baby. Long time no see," he spoke up, voice sounding in a weird inflection. He and his goons showed none of the fear that the other citizenry had towards the woman and her robotic minions. The man peeked into the wagon and gave a chuckle when he saw the banged-up and shackled Horner. "Well, look'a that." The weirdo returned his eyes to the Courier and gave her a lop-sided grin. "Baby, if you wanted a man, all ya had to do was ask. Me an the all the boys here would love ta be your main squeeze. You didn't have ta go out into the wastes and rough up this poor dope."

The Courier rolled her eyes, but gave the hood an amused smirk. "Very funny, Pacer. But this asshole's a fugitive. I'm bringin' him in for interrogation."

"Oho, I see," Pacer turned his slightly bloodshot eyes towards Horner and flashed him a mocking smile. "I'd hate to be you right now, buddy."

Horner just gave him a disgusted sneer.

After a few more minutes of small talk, Pacer and his goons eventually went on their way. "Don't forget, sweet thing. If you ever need help, me an' the Kings always got your back," he told the Courier before he left.

_Lovely company this bitch carries,_ Horner thought angrily to himself.

"Those guys are with the Kings," the Courier told him off-handedly, more in the manner of a friend making idle conversation than what she truly was: some glorified hoodlum holding him against his will. "They run Freeside, with Mr. House's blessing, of course. I'm actually a member of their gang, you know. First girl to make the cut," she stated proudly with a grin. "I even wore one of their uniforms for a couple of days, but it just wasn't me."

Horner was a bit confused at the woman's behavior; for some reason, she was acting like a normal person. The bitch was even smiling at him, her eyes lacking the near-total malice they had when he first met her. She seemed totally at ease, as if just a few hours ago she didn't just murder the man who, from all the accounts that he had heard, had saved her life. She didn't even hesitate, pulling the trigger on the kind old doctor without mercy. What the hell was wrong with this bitch?

"I didn't ask," he spat as a retort to her attempt at conversation.

The Courier frowned for a moment before shrugging. Her demeanor changed once more, her previous friendliness vanishing behind a dark, angry look. "Fine, motherfucker," she snorted. "I was gonna give you a little break, but if you wanted to go straight to the torture, then shit, let's get right to it then."

The rest of the trip through the city was made in tense silence, a fact that suited Horner just fine. Frankly he felt that every word out of the Courier's mouth was either a lie or the rantings of a deranged madwoman. She could burn in hell as far as he was concerned, and if there was truly a God or any justice left in this world then he would personally be the one to send her to it.

The wagon stopped briefly upon reaching the checkpoint into the Strip. All around the center of the city was a massive wall of erected metal sheets and steel girders, welded and bolted together several feet thick into an all but impassable obstruction. It was topped with razor wire and high-powered searchlights were interspersed ever few dozen feet. What's more, it was all patrolled by what seemed like _hundreds_ of those security robots. Horner paled at the sheer number of the things just standing around, manning the large walls that protected the neon glowing paradise within from the filth of the rest of the planet. They were quickly escorted through the main gates once the robots verified the Courier's identity, and upon passing the giant rusted metal portal did Horner feel himself transported 200 years back.

The Strip was... amazing. Pure and simply put, it was a sight to behold. The young paladin had never seen its like. Not even Rivet City, the wonder of the Capital Alliance, with its massive growth and prosperous rebuilding, with its newly installed electric grid and exterior street lamps, could hold up a candle to the wonder before him now.

Bright neon lights assaulted his eyes, the glow of reds, blues, greens, and other colors he had never seen before making him slightly dizzy to behold. Each flashed in dozens of patterns, allayed in hundreds of lights, each calling out to him and tempting him towards them. The casino buildings, intact and free of any imperfections, rose up majestically into the dark morning sky. The streets, completely clean of trash and rubble, the pavement unmarked by any cracks or debris. And the people. Dear God, the people. There were so many of them. They lined the wide, bright streets of the Strip, and they were all smiling and laughing, many most obviously inebriated. All wore their Sunday best, most of the Pre-War fashion free of grime and dirt. Even the less pristine dressed of the people here made the wealthiest of citizens from the Capital Alliance look like paupers.

Everyone looked so happy and carefree. It was an unnatural sight.

And of course, the ever-present security robots were to be seen everywhere, either standing in a corner looking imposing but unobtrusive in their blue armored hulls, or patrolling through the crowd of tourists looking for trouble makers. All the revelers seem to be ignoring them, pretty much treating the dangerous machines like lamp posts or fire hydrants. Horner idly wondered if any of these people actually knew what the damn things were capable of.

As the group was making its way through the crowd, one of the security bots approached. It saluted the Courier smartly before speaking.

"Ma'am," it stated in its electronic tone. "Mr. House requests your presence at the Lucky 38."

"Oh, of course," the Courier hustled away quickly without even glancing back at Horner. She headed straight towards the most prominent structure on the Strip, the large tower that the paladin had first spotted days and miles ago in the Wasteland. That eyesore seemed to be visible from everywhere in the Mojave as it stood straight up, jabbing high into the sky like a mighty sword, arrogantly proclaiming humanity's superiority to God and nature even after the end of the world.

Horner was somewhat surprised when the robot that had approached then turned to him. This time though, it had a different face on its viewscreen. Instead of the usual gruff looking soldier caricature peeking from the CRT monitor, the pic of a beautiful brunette woman with a lily in her hair stared back at him.

"Oh, you poor thing," the robot told him in a soothing female voice. "What has that awful woman done to you?"

"Uh... huh?" Horner muttered. He'd never been talked to by a girl robot before. Frankly, he never even knew there _could_ be girl robots.

"I'm so sorry for what you had to go through, sugar," the robot continued, her artificial voice tinged with concern. "I assure you, Mr. House had no idea that his employee was up to such shenanigans! Oh dear... let's get you patched up quick, hopefully infection hasn't set in yet. I'm Jane, by the way. I'm sure we'll both be great friends."

"... what?" Horner's question remained unanswered as the security bots (plus Jane) rushed him through the Strip and towards who knows what. A small bit of hope flowered in him, that perhaps what the robot said was true and perhaps he would make it out of this alive. But then again, one of these same robots had killed Paladin Cody, so his opinion of the lot of them was rather low. Still, even if this was a trick, he could use it to his advantage. Even injured, he was a Paladin of the Brotherhood of Steel. These fools were taking him too lightly, and that was a mistake they would soon regret...

* * *

"You wanted to see me, sir?" The Courier stepped up to House's massive monitor, staring up at his glowing image with all but reverence shining in her eyes. She had taken a slight detour after getting off the elevator to the penthouse, rushing to the bathroom to wash her face first. She always wanted to look presentable in front of her employer; the savior of humanity deserved no less than her total respect, after all.

"Ah, Six, there you are," Mr. House spoke up, his refined voice sending shivers down her spine as it always did. "How did the operation I sent you to perform go?"

"Very well, sir," the Courier answered, "the primary target was neutralized with minimal damage to Securitron forces. I have also captured one of the enemy interlopers, though two or more may still be at large. I have the utmost confidence that I will soon capture or kill any those left, so you don't have to worry about anything on that front, boss."

"I see," Mr. House paused for a fraction of a second before continuing. This time his voice sounded rather stern. "Remind me. Did I or did I not instruct you that this was to only be a reconnaissance mission? I thought I was clear that you were not to engage the targets. That you were to only ascertain their identity and their usefulness to our goals."

"I... I found out that they were members of the Brotherhood of Steel, a branch from the East Coast. As you are most aware, sir, the Brotherhood has been a major thorn in your side, so I deemed it necessary to act swiftly. Whatever they were doing in Hidden Valley had to be stopped."

Mr. House was silent for two long seconds, an eternity for him, when he spoke again. "Very well. I shall defer to your judgement for that event. But... that still leaves the incident at Good Springs."

A tiny twitch appeared in corner of the Courier's lower right eye. If House noticed he gave no indication. "Sir?"

"I received a very tersely worded complaint via Victor from Good Springs' mayor. She and most of the settlement seem to be in quite an uproar regarding the incident in which you shot and killed the town doctor."

"He refused to hand the prisoner over, sir," the Courier simply stated.

"Was it truly necessary to kill him, though? I'm sure you could have found a more... non-lethal means of achieving your goal."

"I..." the young woman took a deep breath before looking up into the giant viewscreen. "I wanted to send a message, sir. Doc Mitchell was a good man, but his defiance set a dangerous presidence. Anyone who defies your will needs to be punished. If I had let him off easy, then others would have seen it as a weakness. They would have followed in his example, and gone against your will as well. As much as I... cared for Doc, I couldn't let his insult go. I had to stamp down this rebellion quickly, before it grew to something unmanageable."

There was more silence from her employer, as the mogul seemed to be thinking upon her words carefully. Finally, after a full minute of stillness, House spoke. "I see. Well, you certainly had your reasons, so in this case I shall defer to your judgement as well. Although, if you would be so kind as to do me a favor, Six," House sounded slightly exasperated while he spoke, "in future please try to be less... forceful in your dealings with the local population, hmm? I know such heavy handed methods have their place, but New Vegas is not like it was two years ago, when we were accosted from all sides by hostile forces. The time for destruction and violence is over. Now is the time to employ softer and more subtler approaches. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir," the Courier said. She looked down upon the floor, her face noticeably filled with shame. "I'm sorry."

"There's no need to apologize, Six," House said rather tersely. "Just do better next time."

"Yes, sir."

"You may go."

"Yes, sir." the young woman twisted stiffly upon her heel and walked away, heading up a flight of stairs and onto the second floor of the penthouse. She brushed past several Securitrons before reaching the elevator. None of the robots noticed the shaking of her hand as she reached up to press the button.

* * *

The Courier exited the Lucky 38 and swept through the throngs of people, many of whom parted and made way for her. Most, if not all of them, knew who she was and not to mess with her when she was in one of her moods.

She left the bright neon lights of the Strip and marched into the less populated areas of Freeside. This was where the less than savory elements of the city made their homes, where thugs and riffraff who were too foul or stupid to belong to any of the criminal gangs eventually wound up. It was also where the tired and desperate go, the area of the city where those with something to hide or run away from escape to.

The young woman wandered aimlessly through the dirty, cracked streets, her boots heavy and crunching various bits of trash under them. She entered a dark alley and continued to wander through them, seemingly marching in random directions through the shadowy and foul smelling passages.

"Hey, you!"

The Courier stopped, then turned her eyes in the direction of the shout. It came from a rather ragged looking boy, one two or three years younger than she was. He was thin, all but skin and bones, his hair ragged with eyes red and bloodshot. His arms were bare of the filthy rags he wore, and upon the skin she could see the numerous brown and purple prick marks from Med-X syringes.

"G-give me all your money, bitch," the boy said while he waved a rather battered looking Chinese pistol in her direction. "I'll shoot you dead, whore! So give m-me all your caps!"

The Courier didn't bother answering back. With a grace and swiftness few posses, she twisted her lithe body until her left leg shot back into a vicious kick, booted foot slamming into the boy's neck. There was a sickening crunch and soon he toppled to the ground like a broken puppet with its strings cut. The useless gun clattered onto the pavement before sliding under a rusty dumpster. The boy was obviously dead even before his body hit the ground, but this fact did not stop the Courier from continuing her attack. She quickly straddled his lifeless corpse and began mercilessly punching at his unmoving head. Over and over she rained down punch after punch, the powerful blows all but smashing in his lifeless features. Fists met flesh and skull with sickening crunches, blood squirting forth from in between the boy's lifeless eyeballs. With each jab and strike she grunted and snarled, pure and absolute fury burning in her hazel eyes. Several of the homeless wretches nearby heard the commotion and quickly fled.

Within fifteen minutes, the boy's skull was nothing but crushed bone and meaty paste. Yet still, the Courier continued to rain down punches at the mess. Tears began to leak from her furious eyes, and soon sobs replaced her vicious growls.

Eventually, the sun rose over the city of New Vegas. People woke up and went on their daily business, many of whom passed through the very alley that only a few hours before held the Courier and the unfortunate drug addict. Several people even passed his headless corpse. Of course, nothing was done. No one paid attention to another dead body in the street. Anyway, everyone knew that by dusk the body would have been picked clean, both by looters seeking the boy's belongings along with desperately hungry wastrels who had no choice but to eat whatever meat they could find. Eventually, nothing would remain of the nameless boy, nothing but the passing memory of the woman who had killed him. She might think of him from time to time, perhaps wondering who he was and what his story had been. But ultimately she would forget him completely, as his face would blur into the hundred other obscure faces whose lives met their end at her hands.

And then he would be nothing. Such was the way of the Wasteland.

Such was the way of New Vegas.


End file.
